


boundless || bokuaka

by crispy_scoliosis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bokuaka - Freeform, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Dismemberment, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fantasy, Fluff, Gore, Historically Inaccurate, I swear I know what I'm doing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, LITERALLY, M/M, Not for the faint of heart, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Plot, Plotty, Psychological Torture, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Violence, Weird Plot Shit, already so fucking many, honestly idk how I'm going to do this, i am not ready period, i really can't add anymore tags to reference that there's, inspired by chinese myths but not accurate, just be prepared you pussies, look there's just a shit ton of violence and fighting okay, there's war in here, very plot-heavy i am sorry, what do you expect, yes theres fluff too pls im trying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:42:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 82,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26388121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispy_scoliosis/pseuds/crispy_scoliosis
Summary: I haveClimbed mountains,Crossed the seas,Soared through clouds,In pursuit of your soul—ForCountlessLifetimes.And still I wonder,When you will remember,That it was I who thawed your ice—And brought ruin unto the walls around your heart—As I screamed that"For you,IAmHere"?---the fantasy/reincarnation au that literally no one asked for
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji & Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 61
Kudos: 104





	1. n.

**B O U N D L E S S**

**[ bokuaka ]**

_I have followed you for countless lifetimes—_

_Through the skies, through the mountains, through the seas._

_It was I who thawed your ice,_

_Brought down your walls,_

_screaming that,_

_"For you,_

_I_

_am_

_here."_

_And so_

_I wonder,_

_when you will remember — _

_The me who loves you so?_

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:**

The universe in this fic is inspired by Chinese mythology, BUT, it is my own spin on it, and is therefore not at ALL accurate. I've only borrowed a few points and changed it up here and there. So while some terms may be similar and mean the same things, **others might not be.** If you truly want to read some really good BL/Chinese Fantasy stories, there are plenty out there.

**THIS WORK IS HEAVILY INSPIRED BY EVENTS THAT HAVE TRANSPIRED IN CERTAIN NOVELS.**

Some off the top of my head are Nan Chan and 2HA. So if you've read any of these and find it similar, now you know why.

**THIS WORK WILL NOT BE CENSORED IN ANY WAY.**

**THIS WORK IS NOT HISTORICALLY ACCURATE.**

**THIS WORK IS NOT MYTHOLOGICALLY ACCURATE.**

Everything comes from my brain.

Happy reading!


	2. Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I have a beloved in this world."_  
>  _"Your Highness, I understand your everything."_  
>  \- Hua Cheng, Heaven Official's Blessing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very dialogue-heavy :'D So please bear with me!

* * *

_And then, of course, Kuroo is the one who hangs up in the end. But this time, he says, “I love you, bro.” Even if it’s a little frustrated, there’s still a certain weight to it, and in the end, Bokuto replies with an enthusiastic and amused, “Love you, too, you dick.”_

* * *

_“Go back.”_

_Oh_ , he thinks. _It’s this dream again._

_“Damn it,_ Kou _—_ ** _turn back!_** ”

Cold, pale fingers seize the sleeves of his robe; its dark colour is stained darker still with blood. For the umpteenth time, Bokuto thinks he should be more concerned with how the skin looks almost _grey_ , but, as always, the first thing his dream self bothers to think is, _beautiful._ Images fly by his mind: the slight curl of thin lips that he, inexplicably, knows is almost equivalent of a laugh. Vibrant eyes, gunmetal blue with bright green flecks, twinkling in amusement. The thought of porcelain, the feel of smooth skin against his hands. _Beautiful._

He meets those eyes now; the beauty’s dark hair is plastered to his face, his face streaked with tears. Those pale fingers press against a bleeding wound on Bokuto’s side in a useless attempt to stanch the bleeding. It’s useless, Bokuto knows, but even so, his dream self can never bring himself to push those hands away.

A pendant the colour of jade flashes before his eyes, hung around that pale neck. Bokuto reaches for it in a trance; the world around him dims.

But he’s not scared.

No, he’s…

_Peaceful._

Something in him sighs. 

_Yeah,_ he thinks. _That’s a good word for it._

The jade is smooth and cold to the touch. The blood on his fingers smears against its cold surface. 

The male above him hurries to remove it, saying, “Take it. Take it back. Take it back and _go_ , Kou. _Go back._ ” 

Bokuto’s hand closes around the pendant and he shakes his head. A smile leaves his lips. “What did I tell you? It’s yours, Keiji. I gave it to you. Keep it.”

Frantically, the man named Keiji pulls against Bokuto’s grip. His dream self recalls that he’s never seen the person before him quite as expressive as he is now; his tears are streaming down his face, his eyebrows furrowed. That ever-so-calm expression in his eyes is absent, replaced by a burning desperation and sorrow. Even a little anger. But mostly concern. Panic. Keiji shakes his head desperately. “Dammit, dammit, _dammit._ Take it back! _Take it back, Kou._ Take it and go back. _Please_. This…” He uses his eyes—those gorgeous eyes that remind Bokuto of precious—no, _priceless_ gems—to gesture at his wounded body as they glisten with tears and desperation and panic and—

Oh. 

_Love._

“It shouldn’t be you here. _It shouldn’t be you here!_ ” His voice cracks, raises in volume, as his breath itches. Bokuto realises his hands are shaking. And the world is so dim. He can barely keep his eyes open. “It should be me. Oh, Kou, _why_ did you—”

“Hey,” he interrupts, casting his gaze skyward as a lazy smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Keep it. Remember me.” 

“No, no, no.” Those delicate fingers desperately form a seal for the umpteenth time(despite the fact that the Bokuto watching this dream play out like it’s a movie has only seen it once) and his eyes glow with power, but they both know that this effort is futile. 

But love is a funny, fickle thing. 

It doesn’t stop him. 

“Stay with me, Kou,” he chokes. “ _Stay with me._ ” Desperately, Keiji cups Bokuto’s face in his hands. They’re warm, now. He wonders if that makes him cold. 

He wonders if he’ll see his little jewel again. 

“Don’t die, don’t die, _oh heavens—_ ”

“Hey, do you remember what we talked about the other day?” Bokuto interrupts again, forcing Keiji to stop his stream of pleas. “When we were in the woods. It was night time.” 

His jewel chokes; the tears drop onto Bokuto’s bloodstained robe as he nods his head, his body too racked with sobs to give a coherent answer. 

Silence. 

Then, quietly, he says, “Remember them.”

And then he wakes up. 

**————————**

He can never remember his face—only that jade pendant he wears around his porcelain neck, so vividly that it almost seemed as though he’s owned it, touched it himself. 

Whether that’s about the memory of that pendant or that porcelain neck, the male has a nagging suspicion that the answer to that is _both._

It’s strange, he thinks. That dream. It plays in his head over and over, invading his sleep every few days. Heartbreaking, at first. Tiring, now that he’s seen it again and again for years on end. He doesn’t know what Dream Bokuto is doing, doesn’t know who that Keiji _—_ who he can never remember the face of _—_ is, and only that he feels he was— _is_ —someone important to him. It’s in the way his voice brings him in and makes him fall into some sort of abyss, some sort of deep well of bliss that he never wants to crawl out of; and the way they spoke to each other, like they were soulmates. 

It’s just that Bokuto can never understand why, whenever he wakes up from that dream, he cries. He can never understand why his hand hugs at his side where that pain was so vivid and sharp before, as though he’s actually felt it himself, even though he’s never experienced a wound like that in his life. Even though he’s clearly never even fought, he can still somehow recall the weight of a sword. 

And also why he feels that today, something big will happen. 

And that it won’t be something good. 

_Am I really going to worry about this on my twentieth birthday when it makes no sense?_ He slides from his bed with a groan, then stretches. _Nope!_

Bokuto reaches for his phone; it lies on the table beside his bed. The moment its screen brightens, his eyes catch onto the countless birthday texts, sent from… well. _Everyone_ , it seems. His Twitter is blowing up and jamming. His Instagram is useless. 

He grins. 

_Feels great to be a celebrity._

Because Bokuto Koutarou likes attention like that. 

His phone pings. 

**From: Rooster**

**You awake already, sleepyhead?**

His grin widens impossibly and he types back immediately. 

**To: Rooster**

**Says the one with the constant bedhead**

**From: Rooster**

**Fuck you**

**From: Rooster**

**Happy 2000th birthday, fucker**

**To: Rooster**

**Can’t you type the numbers properly for once**

Bringing his phone to the bathroom, Bokuto props it aside and reaches for his toothbrush. He (thankfully)has no matches today, and he’s planning to splurge on himself in style. Though, knowing himself, one way or another, his money would be spent on sports equipment or something useless. The sound of water running fills the room as Bokuto tries for the third time to open Instagram. 

No dice.

Pouting, the athlete finally sets the useless and overpriced thing aside in favour of brushing his teeth and cleaning up. He styles his hair with practiced ease before getting out and getting dressed before reaches for his phone again. 

**From: Glasses-kun**

**Happy birthday**

And nothing else. _Of course._ But Bokuto knows better than to take any sort of wish from Tsukishima Kei at face value. So, he types a reply in all caps, because he can and because that’s just how he _is._

His mind flashes to the feeling of those delicate fingers desperately pressing against his wound as they glow in an attempt to heal him, but to no avail. That voice; so vivid in the dream but nothing but a whisper of a memory now, murmuring something incoherent that should have been understandable, but wasn’t. For a moment, Bokuto wonders if Fate is trying to ruin his birthday with the dream of him dying(again, because he dreamt it last week, and the week before that, and the week _before_ that week, and so on and so forth). But he also finds himself wondering why he always clings to it like it’s an important memory. 

His phone rings. Bokuto picks it up without bothering to check for the name.

_“‘Sup?”_ Comes Kuroo’s voice from the other end of the line. Judging by how quiet it is on the other end, the athlete assumes that the bed-headed man is still at home. A part of him snorts as he thinks, _and you slandered_ me _for sleeping in! “How’s it feel to be twenty? I messaged you on the_ dot _, dude—I can’t believe you clocked out at your usual time, as usual! It’s your fucking_ birthday! _”_

“Hey!” Bokuto warns. “It’s still a _day._ I need my sleep!” The sound of a bowl clattering on the table fills the room, followed by the _clang_ of a spoon being dropped down next to it. On the other end, Kuroo lets out a curse; it’s breathless and soft and sounds unbearably old. 

_“You’re having a whole-ass party over there, aren’t you?”_ He snaps, like the old lady he is. Bokuto barks out a laugh and purposely lifts the bowl to slam it back on the table to piss the male on the other end off with zero regard for his ears as he puts his phone near the source of sound. As expected, when the athlete brings the device back to his ear again, Kuroo’s cursing at a million kilometres per second, and, honestly, Bokuto’s certain the guy has started using another language altogether. “ ** _Oi!_** ” 

“What?” He reaches over for a carton of milk, not bothering to keep that smug smile off his face and _knowing_ that Kuroo can _hear_ it even if he can’t see it. “I’m lettin’ you get a taste of the _party_! You’re missing _out,_ bro.”

_“I’m missing my fucking hearing is what I’m missing!”_ Kuroo hisses into the phone. Rustling on the other end tells the man getting his breakfast ready that the other one on the end is sliding back into his bed. The image of Kuroo Tetsurou falling off his bed with flailing arms all because of a too-loud sound prompts Bokuto to start guffawing on the spot. 

“Quit being such a princess, jeez!” He huffs as he pours in the milk, then the cereal(it started out as a joke to spite Tsukishima, but now he finds that it’s a habit he can’t be bothered to get rid of; plus, the reactions he gets when he mentions he pours the milk before the cereal are _priceless_ ). “‘Twas but a sound, my good sir.”

_“Yeah, a damn_ loud _one! You try clanging some fucking bowl or whatever on the table or counter or whatever next to your own ear and tell me how_ you _feel!”_ Kuroo snaps. 

“You’re such a _baaaaby_ ,” Bokuto drags, amused as he scoops up a bite. He’s met with another endless string of curses(though this one more for the sake of it than actual anger). “I’m friends with an infant!”

_“I’m older than you—”_

“My birthday is _today,_ and yours isn’t until November!”

_“—and you still treat me like I’m not!”_

“I _am_ though?” 

_“Why do I bother?”_

“What?”

_“What?”_

Silence. 

And then, together, “ _What?_ ”

And then they’re laughing. Bokuto’s shoulders shake and he has to painfully swallow the food in his mouth to avoid spitting out both the milk and bits of cereal as his hands fist and bang against the table. This, paired with the sound of Kuroo’s boisterous and unrestrained laughter on the other end, prompts the athlete to wonder just why he was so concerned about how the day would play out when he first woke. 

(He uses it as an excuse to shove away the disquiet in his heart, and the thoughts of that jade pendant and that… oh. He’s already forgotten his name. By the end of the day, he’ll forget that dream, too; it’ll be tucked away into some dusty corner in the darkest recesses of his mind, never to be seen again until the next time the dream finds him, because if he had the choice, he would never seek it.) 

“Let me eat my _breakfast_ , you dick!” Bokuto snaps finally as his mood calms(not counting the occasional chuckles that escape his lips because he’s never been good at controlling himself or the droplets of milk that have spilled onto the table from when he slammed his fist on it in an attempt to release his pent-up amusement). “Some people actually _have_ all their meals! Unlike you! You’re probably still in bed!”

_“Oi! Why is this about_ me _all of a sudden?”_ Comes Kuroo’s offended remark; Bokuto can almost imagine the way he puffs out his chest, like a proud rooster refusing to take a blow, no matter how small the offense. Though he knows that the ravenette is by no means that shallow a person, Kuroo Tetsurou likes to act like he is all the same. Bokuto supposes it comes in handy in situations like these, where he feels he’s being “wrongfully slandered”, as he would so _eloquently_ put it, accompanied by a string of curses dating back to Bokuto’s great-great-great-something grandpa, because the dude’s old-fashioned like that. The athlete is pulled from his reverie by Kuroo’s voice on the other end again as he asks, _“By the way, you goin’ out today? Or are you gonna spend your day off lazing around at home again?”_

Bokuto doesn’t hear that undertone of _something_ in Kuroo’s voice. So he pouts, shoves another spoonful of milk and cereal into his mouth, and says, while he chews, “Hey! That was _one time_! I’m going _out_ today, thank you very much. I’m planning to _splurge_!” He pumps a fist into the air, hyping himself up, even though he knows there’s no one to see it. 

_“When are you going out, then?”_ Comes Kuroo’s bemused reply. Again, there’s rustling, and Bokuto assumes that the guy is _finally_ hauling his ass out of bed to get ready for the day. His point is, of course, proven by the sound of running water and something falling onto the ground, followed by another torrent of ineligible but indescribably familiar curses. _“I’ll drive you. I don’t trust your hazardous driving skills one_ fucking _bit. Especially today.”_

He downs the last of his cereal and picks up his now empty bowl, bringing it over to the dishwasher. The bi-coloured-haired male squeezes his phone between his ear and shoulder as he gets the thing running as his mouth gathers into a pout and a groan leaves his lips. “Dude, _you’re_ supposed to be the baby! Not me! Play the part right!” 

_“What’re you gonna do if I break character, huh?”_ Comes Kuroo’s smug reply. _“Use your tiny fists to punch my shoulder and call for mother? Come, I’ll let you do just that. Uncle Kuroo knows best, Boku-baby. Don’t be shy!”_

“I hate you.” 

_“Aw, shucks, you flatter me.”_

“I’m hanging up!”

_“Pussy_ — _”_

“I’m doing it!”

_“Oi! Hold up!”_

His thumb hovers over the red button with the words **END CALL** written on it, but, of course, the athlete’s curiosity prevents him from actually doing the deed, spurred on by the strange sense of urgency—maybe even panic?—in Kuroo’s tone. So, instead, he goes, “What now?” In a mocking tone of exasperation. “I know you love me, man, but like, I don’t like you like that.” 

Kuroo’s words are immediately reduced to dumbfounded sputtering. Then, like an exasperated aunt, he goes, _“Like hell I’d ever get it on with you!”_

“I’m going to hang up no—!” 

_“What the fu—just listen! You stay where you are. You’re not allowed to leave the house until I get there!”_

And then, of course, _Kuroo_ is the one who hangs up in the end. But this time, he says, _“I love you, bro.”_ Even if it’s a little frustrated, there’s still a certain weight to it, and in the end, Bokuto replies with an enthusiastic and amused, “Love you, too, you dick.” 

**——————————**

Kenma walks into the bathroom, fixing his large, feline-like eyes on Kuroo’s figure. His expression is not unlike someone newly roused from sleep(it reminds the ravenette of a newborn kitten, really), but his gaze is as keen and unnerving as ever as he leans his forehead against the taller’s broad back. There’s silence; comfortable and tense at the same time. Kuroo knows what his boyfriend’s going to ask, but he can’t bring himself to speak up. Like a coward, he continues to brush his teeth and wash his face as though there’s nothing out of the ordinary, despite his rushed and almost _frantic_ actions, because, for as long as he has known Bokuto Koutarou, he has never been able to control him, and he doubts that today will be any different. He hates how this is a trait that’s never changed, but loves it all the same. 

Finally, Kenma breaks the silence, his words soft but somehow cutting through that comfortable but suffocating blanket as he asks, “Why bother?”

Kuroo takes his time. He doesn’t answer immediately; instead, he wipes his face, strips off his clothes to toss on some casual ones and styles his hair as best as he can so he looks less like he just tumbled out of bed and more like he’s got absolutely no sense of style when it comes to hair to begin with. Then he sighs. “I can’t help it.”

“You keep doing it, but you know how it’ll end up anyway…” Kenma shakes his head. “I don’t understand.” 

The ravenette chuckles; something about it is melancholy. “Honestly? Me neither.” He walks out of the room and doesn’t bother to eat his breakfast; there’s no need for it anyway. Kenma trails behind him and Kuroo looks back, asking, “You coming or nah?” Because even if he’s rushing and Kenma seems like he doesn’t care, the fact that the pudding-haired male went through his morning routine alongside his boyfriend tells the ravenette that he cares, too. 

Naturally, he doesn’t answer, but when the car door opens, Kozume Kenma slides in next to him, and, like always, with their hands held, they’re praying that everything will be fine, that no, _it won’t turn out like last time._

Because it _can’t_. 

But no one can control the will of the heavens.

**————————**

No one can control Bokuto Koutarou’s will, either. 

He grabs the keys off the counter and sends a photo to Kuroo of the oh-so- _dreaded_ outside world, and his barely-used car, because, if given the choice, the athlete would always take public transport for convenience’s sake. But he can still drive.

Barely. 

But, hey, the driving license is there for a reason, and _definitely_ not for show. 

And, Bokuto tells himself, he’s driven before! Plenty of times! He’ll be fine! He _shouldn’t be allowing Kuroo’s anxiety to get into his head!_ This _definitely_ has nothing to do with that odd sense of foreboding he’s had since he’s woken up! Nothing to do with that dream, either, when he can _barely remember it now_ ! Except for that pendant. It’s _always_ that damn pendant that remains especially vivid in his mind’s eye. 

He gets into his car. 

It still smells new. 

He sweats a little. 

_Stop being a pussy!_

He starts the engine. 

And then he’s driving. His phone blows up as Kuroo calls, and Bokuto reaches for it, his heart calming, because, damn, he’s still got it. This is gonna be a breeze. “‘Sup?”

_“Where are you right now?”_

“Driving to the mall. Relax, dude! I’m fine. Seriously, stop being a worrywart!” He makes a turn and rolls his eyes at a driver promptly disobeying the traffic light. “I’m gonna get myself those new shoes I keep yammering about—hopefully they’re still there.” 

He can see the mall in front of him. Just a few more turns and he’ll be there. 

“I’ll meet you the—”

Black robes. A green pendant. An inexplicable sense of longing. Bokuto’s head swivels to the side, to catch a glimpse of—of that _something_ , of that _someone_ —but it’s gone. His mouth is dry. 

_The fuck was_ that _?_

_“Earth to Bokuto Koutarou! Hello! You still there?”_

He shakes his head quickly, gathering his wits as he drives onward. “Yeah, just saw something really weird. Anyway, I’ll meet you there.” 

_“Okay, okay, but don’t you dare hang up. Keep talking to me.”_

Bokuto raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t object. “ _Ooookay_ then. I’m gonna grab myself some McDonalds after this, too. And maybe some boba! To hell with my diet!” He grins at the thought. It’s not counted as violating “the rules” if his coach or dietician or whatever doesn’t find out, right?

Kuroo snorts on the other end. _“What makes you so confident that I won’t tell on you, hotshot?”_

“You’re my bro! You—”

_Oh my god that’s a dog what’s a dog doing on the road like that—_

He yanks the wheel to the side. Hard. 

His tyres screech. 

Someone’s honking at him and he’s trying to swerve back onto the road. There’s a lamppost in front of him. 

But his eyes look in the direction of the dog. It’s run off the road in fear. 

_“Oi, Koutarou! What was that? What’s happe—”_

_He’s never called me Koutarou before._

A green pendant. Black, silken robes. Pale hands, unbearably hot, on his face, as someone cries for him to go back. _Go back. Turn back._ **_Take it back!_ **

There’s the sound of metal being crushed. Cars, honking at each other. Tyres screeching. 

And then it’s dark. 

_I didn’t even get to say goodbye._

**——————**

_I’m alive?_

There’s a sort of calm in his chest that he normally doesn’t feel. No surprise at all. But then his eyes catch onto the wreckage before him, and he tilts his head, thinks, _no, that’s not right. Whose blood is that?_

He nears that familiar car. Then, _oh._

Oh, _it’s my blood._

_I’m dead._

_._

_I’M DEAD?_

Frantically, Bokuto paws at his body, but his hands don’t pass through his form. He reaches for the lamppost; his hands go right through. 

One part of him is panicking. And another part is… 

_I’m not surprised?_

No, he’s… 

_Peaceful_. 

Something in him sighs. 

_Yeah,_ he thinks. _That’s a good word for it._

Then he wonders why those thoughts are so familiar.

And then he wonders, again, why he isn’t panicking like he should. 

And then Bokuto Koutarou, in a trance, turns around and starts to follow some unknown path, thoughts of his death probably making the headlines far from his mind as he thinks, _I guess I’ll try to stay here longer than I did last time._

Even though he can’t remember when or _what_ last time was. 

Or why he feels like he’s looking for someone.

_Why indeed._

And then four months pass in the blink of an eye, so quickly that not even he realises it until he checks the date. 

Something strange’s been happening, recently. He’s been able to move things. He swears people can see him, sometimes, too. He even has a reflection! But then, when he looks once more, it’s gone. A part of him thinks, _I’m turning solid?_ And another goes, _that’s ridiculous!_ While some _other other_ part of him—one he’s never had, says— _not at all._ And this part of him is calm, always. Taking charge when Bokuto’s faced with some demons and ghosts and whatnot that always seem to be out for his flesh. He doesn’t know why—aren’t they all the same? Ghosts? 

The first week after his death, he spent wandering. Sometimes, he’d blank out, and then he wouldn’t be in Tokyo anymore. His death did, in fact, make the headlines, and seeing the words **“World-class Athlete Bokuto Koutarou Meets With Tragic Accident”** gave him an odd mix of fascination, satisfaction, excitement and unfathomable sadness. And a sort of bone-deep exhaustion. 

His friends grieved a lot. 

He made it back to Tokyo on his second month. He visited his own grave, which was abundant with flowers. Sometimes, he sees Kenma and Kuroo there. 

Sometimes, he thinks that they can see him. 

That’s when he started truly feeling the weight of his death. When he started cursing everyone and everything, because aren’t spirits supposed to be guided to the underworld unless they’ve got some grievances? _What the hell is he still doing here?_ What _reasons_ could he possibly have to make him stay in the living world when he has no friends to talk to, nothing to do? 

But at night, all he can think, is, _where are you?_

And then, _Who_ are _‘you’?_

And now he’s here. On the top of a hill overlooking Tokyo; the lights are a gorgeous mix of colours, the brightness a stark contrast to the night sky. It’s a pity he can’t see the stars, but he supposes the artificial grounded ones are enough for now. 

“What are _you_ still doing here?” 

The voice startles him out of his reverie. It shakes him to the bone. It’s so _familiar._ It’s _too familiar._ His chest swells with an inexplicable feeling and Bokuto whips his head around, hurrying to stand, his eyes wide. 

Black, silken robes. Pale skin. Gunmetal blue eyes. And—

_The pendant._

His eyes brighten.

_The pendant!_

And then, as though his mouth isn’t his own, he breathes, “ _Found you._ ” 

And this man, he tilts his head to the side, and his eyebrows raise delicately as he asks, “Do I know you, Bokuto Koutarou?” His voice is soothing, cool, and it washes over Bokuto like his very first breath of fresh air. 

He blinks, shakes his head to force himself out of his reverie, because that voice—that _voice_ —makes him feel like he’s falling. Falling, into some endless abyss, that he’ll never want to get out of. “How do you know my name?” 

The man takes out a book; it’s old-fashioned and aged, the edges creased and wrinkled. It’s a wonder how it’s still usable. “Bokuto Koutarou, aged twenty, professional athlete. Time of death: eleven eighteen in the morning, September twentieth. Your soul should have found its way to the underworld a long time ago.” He pockets the book. Bokuto realises it's agonisingly familiar. “So why are you still here?”

“Wait,” Bokuto says, after a pause, as the man’s words sink in, his gaze still fixed on that pendant hung around his neck. “You’re telling me there _is_ an underworld? Are you a grim reaper, then?”

The male’s expression sours ever-so-slightly(but really, it’s just the slightest furrow of his brows) and his pale fingers close around the pendant to tuck it safely into his collar, forcing Bokuto to meet his cool gaze. “Not a grim reaper. An immortal official. And, yes, there _is_ an underworld.” The male approaches Bokuto, tilts his head to the side. “And you seem like you’ve some grievances to settle before you can get down there. What are they?” 

Bokuto shakes his head helplessly. “I’ll be honest with you, dude, I got no idea either. I’ve been here for four months.”

The man’s expression is puzzled. “What?” He appraises Bokuto, taking a step back to give him a once-over. “Strange. You’re gaining power. But you shouldn’t be?” 

Something about the “immortal official”’s confusion stokes something in the former athlete’s heart. It’s an agonising sort of swelling, a sharp feeling so full but somehow so _agonising_ that he has to look away. _What the hell is going on?_

“Say, do I know you from somewhere?” Bokuto blurts, unable to hold himself back. He fixes his bright gaze on the pale-skinned official before him, tilting his head to the side. “I feel like I should. Know you, I mean.” 

The male crosses his arms. “You’ve the wrong person.”

The coldness in his tone is uncertain. Bokuto doesn’t know how, but he can tell. The smallest of things that he ordinarily wouldn’t notice when it comes to someone he’s just met—he notices all of them now, with an inexplicable, familiar fondness that makes him feel like something’s _definitely_ not right in his head. Nevertheless, he pushes on. “But that jade pendant you’re wearing—”

“What about it?” The dark-robed male’s tone hitches defensively; pale fingers close around the object hidden beneath his collar. He tenses ever-so-slightly, like a caged animal ready to defend its treasure. It’s a little… pitiful, really.

“Who gave it to you?”

His face falls and he looks away. He hesitates, then says, “I don’t know. I just know…” He pauses, then sighs as his hand falls, once more regaining his composure. “It’s important to me. But it isn’t to you. Why do you care?”

“Is your name Keiji?” 

His face hardens. “How do you know that?” 

And then, something in his heart whispers, _I know you._

But he replies with, “I don’t know either.” 

“You can’t call me that,” he finally responds, folding his hands together beneath the long, loose sleeves of his robe. “My name is Akaashi.”

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, testing the name on his tongue. Then he grins. “That’s a really nice name you got there.”

The gaze he gets in return is complicated. Then he says, “If you can’t remember your grievances, you can’t enter the wheel of reincarnation. I’ll help you.” 

A pause. 

And then, “And… I think you _did_ know me, Bokuto Koutarou. And I, you. But I _don’t_ know who you are. So you’re going to help _me_ solve that mystery, too.”

And that's how the rusty wheels of fate start spinning anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some terms might be confusing (though they're pretty literal) but they'll be explained in the coming chapters! Welcome to this monster of a first chapter HAHA I normally don't write this much but I'm super excited for this work, so I hope you guys will enjoy it! 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment or drop a kudos, or check out my tumblrs and my other works!


	3. Who

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't help myself and went ahead and wrote another monster of a fucking chapter LMAOOOOOOO hope u enjoy this as much as I do !!!

* * *

_“Don’t let him fool you,” Akaashi says. “That snake is more than meets the eye.”_

* * *

“Hey, Akaashi-kun-san,” Bokuto says, breaking the agonising silence. His shapely arms are raised, hands behind his head as he leisurely follows the “immortal official” in front of him; the man’s steps are so light that there’s no sound, and he almost seems to be floating rather than actually _walking_. Despite the fact that the former athlete’s steps are also inaudible, he’s fairly certain that that’s mostly because he’s not _solid_ to begin with, as opposed to the dark-robed immortal in front of him who _clearly_ has a shadow beneath the fading moonlight. “Where are we going?”

The silence between the two stretches for several minutes longer as they traverse through the city that’s slowly starting to wake from its slumber. The sun has yet to rise. “We will rest. Wandering souls are more powerful at night, and you will be more useful then than you are now.” He throws a backward glance, those cold eyes like jewels; hard and impenetrable, but not imposing. “The sun will rise soon. I doubt you’ve gotten much sleep following your death; you’re powerful, but you’re weak.”

_Because that_ totally _makes sense,_ Bokuto thinks, trying to wrap his mind around that last sentence. But all he can _truly_ understand is that though he’s never thought to question it, he _does_ feel stronger at night. And, well, _no,_ he hasn’t been sleeping much. It’s a cowardly attempt at avoiding that dream—no, _dreams_ , now, since they’ve started to increase in variety since his death—that keeps plaguing his sleep. It’s been so bad that it happens every time he gets some shut-eye, and even then, he can no longer understand why there are _always_ subtle differences in the dream. Sometimes, it’s the pain, the place of injury, and sometimes, Keiji—no, _Akaashi,_ somehow—isn’t saving him, but wounding him. Driving the tip of his blade into the bleeding wound. Or he’s kissing him and begging him to stay. Or he’s fighting something in a desperate attempt to defend his body.

“By the way,” Bokuto begins. “What even _is_ an immortal official? Where do you work, then? Like, how does this thing even _work?_ I’ve never heard of it in my life!”

Akaashi pauses in his steps, tilts his head to the side. Then he takes a seat at a bus stop; the sky is painted in soft colours of blue and pink and purple, an indicator of the sun’s rising, the beginning of a new day. The immortal is silent as he stares at the sky in an almost _tranquil_ way, his legs closed together with his hands on his lap and his back straight. For a brief moment, Bokuto wonders why he bothers to sit so properly, but another nags at him, telling him that _it’s a habit, you idiot, and_ you _should have it, too,_ even though his parents have _never_ been strict on posture with him.

A quiet sigh pulls him from his thoughts. Bokuto is pulled from his reverie(paired with a very strange sense of wistful nostalgia) and his gaze focuses on the dark-robed man next to him as he speaks. “I’m a deity,” he begins simply. “A heavenly official, if you will. I’m from the Upper Realm of Heaven, which really just means I have a higher rank. I ascended a long, long time ago.” Delicate fingers once more find the pendant beneath his collar; the movement seems to be out of habit, but Bokuto’s luminescent eyes latch onto it anyway. There’s a sort of… _feeling_ in his chest that he can’t quite understand, but it’s like being stabbed with a knife and feeling all that sharp pain while you’re being overwhelmed by some sort of accomplishment, self-satisfaction and _happiness._

It’s a bittersweet feeling. One he doesn’t know the origins—or the reasons **—** of. 

“Wouldn’t that make you a god, then?” Bokuto’s eyebrows crease together in confusion. “With all those worshippers and shit? Temples built in your name?”

“No.” Now, their gazes meet; one full of curiosity, so alive despite the fact that he’s actually _not_ , and another calm and apathetic, and almost ancient. “Those with temples built to their name are not of the Heavens that I speak of. They are on a higher plane. It’s rare for those in just the Upper Realm to have any believers at all, really[1]. In the end, we’re only there to do the work the higher-ups tell us to.” 

_[1] Not accurate to actual Chinese folklore(that I know of); something I made for this story._

The image of obediently kneeling behind a table as a middle-aged man, donned in navy robes lined with the colours of the sunset as he lectures his students, fills Bokuto’s mind. The man is agonisingly thin, but his voice is firm and strong. His voice overlaps with Akaashi’s, and he’s struck with the familiarity of the scene, as though he’s experienced this before. Heard this lecture, spoken about this topic, like some lesson at school. 

Which shouldn’t make sense _at all_. Bokuto’s robes are of no fancy colours, either; they’re a pale grey lined with equally pale lines of blue and the occasional black as he struggles to keep still behind the low table, his hands fisted on his lap with his thighs tucked beneath him as he struggles to sit straight and listen to the topic at hand at the same time. 

_“Ascension is difficult,” the old man would say as he strolled about the room to make sure his students weren’t dozing off. “One must do a great feat in order to achieve this state. Perhaps they would do an immeasurable, unrepayable amount of good that would shake the world—or they would do an unspeakable amount of evil.” The fan in his hands snaps shut. “Perhaps, in war, they’d taken the lives of countless people, sowing chaos onto the battlefield, their deed shaking the heavens. Perhaps they’d save millions of people at the cost of their own life. This is what it takes to ascend.”_

_He would fix his gaze on every student, his posture straight, one hand behind his back and another in front as it held its fan. “But ascension is one thing; staying in the Realms of the Heavens is another. The Upper Realms are for those who have_ earned _their ascension, achieved with their own hands. And those that are in the Lower Realms are those that the ascended have taken with them. For example, a general, a trusted aide. But no more than two can be taken._

_“Heavenly tribulations are challenges that each deity, or heavenly official, must face, every few hundred years. It tests their power, and those that pass theirs continue to become more powerful still. Those that fail—they lose their immortal lives, doomed to roam as a mortal, like a carnivore with no teeth, no claws, no ability to hunt, and only the memories of its former power and glory.”_

_The fan comes in contact with Bokuto’s drooping head. “Never mind ascension—if none of you fools can be bothered to listen during my lessons, you’d never pass your_ earthly _tribulations. Your exams are in two weeks. Bokuto Koutarou, will your academics be enough to sustain your existence in this academy, or will you fail your ‘tribulation’ and be cast aside?” The teacher snaps. “I have little care for your lineage or your physical prowess, nor your potential_ _[2]_ _. If you fail another one of my papers, I will have you reported to the Master of this academy. Am I clear?”_

_[2] Refers to his martial and spiritual powers as a cultivator. IDK how I'd explain what a cultivator is, so please search it up instead._

_Bokuto groans. “Sakurai-sensei!”_

_The man’s harsh, amber gaze pins Bokuto to the seat. With no choice, the student can only nod his head, lips gathered in a pout._

“Are you listening?”

Bokuto startles; he nearly falls off his seat. With a yelp, he regains his balance before he returns his gaze to Akaashi’s. “I get it, I get it! You were talking ‘bout the Realms and tribulations and all that jazz, right? _Please_ don’t quiz me.” 

Akaashi’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly; delicately, he tilts his head to the side as he raises a mildly-amused eyebrow. “I spoke nothing of the heavenly tribulations, Bokuto-san.”

“You can call me Koutarou, you know,” Bokuto blurts before he can think better of himself. The words aren’t his own, but they _are_ at the same time, and—oh, deities, his head’s starting to hurt again. 

_Deities? Since when did my “oh my god”’’s become “oh deities”?_

But he just… He can’t describe it. _Bokuto-san_ feels cold. Distant. Something strangers would use to address him, or someone who isn’t his equal, or someone he’s not close to. 

But that’s what they _are._

Strangers.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but it’s the _truth._

So why is he so damn _hellbent_ on being called _Koutarou_ by Akaashi Keiji when they’ve only just met?

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi begins slowly. “I don’t know you.” 

It’s like a slap to the face. It’s like a bucket of cold water. It’s like a stab to the heart, and he _doesn’t know why._ But instead of showing the hurt, the discomfort, on his face, he says, “Then just call me Bokuto. I don’t like the ‘-san’; it sounds stuffy.”

“Maybe next time, _Bokuto-san._ ”

And then the edges of Akaashi’s lips curl, ever-so-slightly. And it’s like Bokuto is hyper-aware of his every move, because the moment he sees that expression, that faint twinkle of amusement, in the dark-robed man’s normally dead eyes, his breath leaves his lips and he has to remind himself to breathe. The soft sunlight playing across the immortal’s features is blindingly beautiful, and Bokuto tears his gaze away, ears reddening as he thinks, _he’s teasing me_ and _fuck, he’s gorgeous_ at the same time.

A bus rushes past, tearing him from his reverie, though it passes right by their stop. Bokuto pulls himself back to reality and glances around, blinking as he realises that they’re both surrounded by people, though none of them seem to be casting Akaashi any questioning glances despite the immortal’s odd attire. In fact, they seem to be unable to see him _at all_ , even though none of them have tried to take his seat. As though he knows what Bokuto will ask, the dark-haired man says, “They can’t see us. But they know better than to sit.” 

The former athlete blinks. “How, though?”

Akaashi doesn’t bother to spare Bokuto a glance. “Mortal minds are funny things.” 

He snorts. “Spoken like someone who’s never been one.”

Now, the dark-robed immortal fixes a cold, hard gaze on Bokuto. One that makes him shift in his seat as a pang invades his heart, thinking, _this isn’t right. It shouldn’t be like this_ and _why does that look seem familiar?_ At the same time. “I have been many things, Bokuto- _san_ ,” the cool voice bites out the honorific in a bitter manner. “ _Mortal_ is one of them. And I do not wish to go back to a time when the blood I bled could have cost me my whole lifetime. When the blood I bled was _filthy_ and spilled wrongfully.” His words are barely a whisper, a hiss, perhaps, but even so, Bokuto flinches back, maimed by his claws. 

Abruptly, the immortal rises swiftly as a bus stops by. He doesn’t even bother to check if it’s correct as he steps onto it; when he doesn’t cast a backward glance, Bokuto thinks, _ah, he’s pissed._ Maybe it’s in the way Akaashi’s expression is harder than it was before. Or maybe he just _knows_ , somehow. Either way, he follows behind him obediently, like a guilty dog following its owner. 

He supposes that isn’t too far from the truth. 

He also feels a sort of irony to it, though he can’t pinpoint why. 

When they’ve settled at the back of the bus, Bokuto speaks, unable to bear the suffocating, tense silence. “Where _are_ we going, Akaashi?” He pays the way the ravenette narrows his eyes at the abrupt drop of honorifics in the former athlete’s speech. “Do you have a house in Tokyo or something?”

He hesitates. Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone just as quickly as he replies, “Can’t go back there right now. We’ll be staying at a friend’s place. He’s already been informed beforehand.” There’s a reluctant sort of edge in his voice, but Bokuto doesn’t push when he already feels like he’s walking on eggshells.

So he moves the topic elsewhere. “Who’s your friend?”

A tired sort of sigh leaves Akaashi’s lips; the look in his eyes is one of someone who’d rather not ask for help from a friend(this one, in particular), if he could help it. “His name is Beom.” Delicate fingers find one another as Akaashi pulls at them, almost mindlessly, as he keeps his gaze fixed on the passing world outside the confines of the bus. “He’s a handful at best.” 

Then his gunmetal blue gaze, flecked with green, meets Bokuto’s golden one, and he lets out a small huff that might have been a laugh. “Like you.” 

Bokuto’s (sort of nonexistent?) hackles raise. “Hey! We’ve _just_ met!”

“You’re already a handful,” comes the bemused reply, and before Bokuto can protest even further, Akaashi’s already turned his head to look outside. The ghost of a smile playing across his thin lips doesn’t escape Bokuto’s gaze, and he finds that he can’t stop himself from grinning either. And he doesn’t want to. 

“This is our stop,” Akaashi finally says, breaking the comfortable silence and gently rising from his seat. Bokuto blinks once and realises Akaashi’s abruptly changed his attire; rather than the dark, long robes, and the billowing dark hair tied into a ponytail, he’s donned casual clothes and his hair is curly and cut short. He’s exchanged his almost ancient bearing for a more youthful one, though the years and years of life in his eyes remains the same. He doesn’t wait for the former athlete to follow as he gracefully steps off the bus, prompting Bokuto to opt for phasing through the walls of the bus instead of following him out the door. 

Akaashi’s unimpressed eyes fix on him and he raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. “We walk from here.” He continues walking immediately, not bothering to check(again) if Bokuto is following him, his movements as elegant and graceful as ever. Something about the way they’re walking with one in front and the other, in disguise, is almost too familiar. And again, an inexplicable sort of sharpness penetrates through the walls of Bokuto’s heart, and the image of blood on his hands, dripping through his fingers, as he’s screaming someone’s name fills his mind. Out of nowhere, the deity pauses in his steps. The golden-gazed man doesn’t notice this abrupt change in movements; he’s paused in his steps to stare at his hands. Whose name is he screaming? 

Why does he feel so _heartbroken?_

Where’s all this guilt coming from? 

_Who am I screaming for?_

_Whose blood is on my hands?_

The questions each hit him like a swift punch to the face that he’s lost the ability to avoid. He’s so absorbed in them that he’s failed to notice his surroundings at all. 

Gunmetal blue meets a feline-like gaze, and the two exchange an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement. The newcomer’s mouth opens, only for his gaze to latch onto the disoriented athlete behind the now casual-clothed deity, causing those wide eyes to fail to mask their usually carefully hidden emotions, giving way to surprise. His mouth opens, closes, then he scrunches his eyebrows and looks up at Akaashi, his head tilted to the side ever-so-slightly as he appraises him. 

Akaashi’s gaze is questioning, but the man before him pretends he’s blind as he shrugs and continues walking. After all, he knows the dark-haired man he’s run into is a busy man, and he can’t possibly in the mortal world just because he wants to guide a spirit back to the underworld. In fact, it’s likely that this task he’s taken up is just a side one, something he’s doing because he might as well, since he’s in the living world. 

The deity watches him go, but doesn’t call him back for questioning. Instead, he focuses his gaze on Bokuto, saying, “You there?” in an attempt to bring him back to reality. 

The spirit snaps himself from his reverie, jolting. “Yes! Yeah. Yeah, I’m here, sorry about that,” he says, shaking his head several times, his eyes bewildered. He hurries to follow Akaashi, and the two walk side by side. Only then does the former athlete realise he’s _taller than the deity._

He doesn’t bother to suppress the delight he feels at this. 

And… something else. 

He knows better than to explore _that_ feeling now of all times.

“By the way,” Bokuto starts, ignoring the sigh Akaashi lets out next to him. “Did you, like, come down from your heavens or whatever just to get me?”

“No,” comes the curt reply. “I was flipping through the books of the recently deceased in the Life Registry[3]. Your name was there, and you hadn’t been collected yet. I thought I might as well help out since I was going to go to the mortal realm anymore.” Akaashi fixes a cautionary gaze on Bokuto. “For now, all you need to know is that the mortal realm is no longer as safe as it once was.” His delicate eyebrows furrow and his lips curl downwards into a frown. “Something strange is happening among the demons[4].”

_[3] Again, a name I borrowed. For me, this is a place with books which contain names of the living and the dead, souls and etc that are written by workers of the Underworld._

_[4] Demons, ghosts, devils, fiery ghosts, spirits and etc are different in Chinese mythology. For Boundless, I guess just associate them with smth like fae?_

“Well, whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good.”

“No,” Akaashi agrees. “It is not.”

It takes them about five more minutes to get there. The place is _huge_ ; an apartment complex for the _filthy rich_ , clearly. One he would have bought for himself if not for the endless discouraging, saying it wouldn’t be worth it, _especially_ if he were to live alone, so he settled for a nice, cozy house in the suburbs instead. In the end, he was glad he went with that choice. 

It takes them another few more minutes before they’re in front of the door. Akaashi’s raised fist pauses briefly before he casts a sideward glance Bokuto’s way. “He lives with others. I think they’re all home.” And then his knuckles rap on the door sharply; once, twice, thrice. There’s a pause before the door clicks open. 

The knock is abruptly knocked out of Bokuto’s lungs as he thinks, _holy shit, what the fuck?_

He’s agonisingly pretty. Delicate, almost fragile features, paired with a gentle bearing and phoenix eyes[5]. He’s short; perhaps one-seventy at most. His dark hair is gathered into a ponytail, and his bangs, parted to the side, covers one of his eyes. A tattoo peeks up from the collar of his black turtleneck, and there’s a crescent earring hanging from one of his ears.“... Akaashi-san?”

_[5] Sort of like[this](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DxjyzfHVsAAjoG0.jpg). Phoenix eyes are a sort of Asian eye shape._

Akaashi breathes out a sigh of relief, as though glad to have avoided some sort of confrontation. “Hwanjae-san.”

An embarrassed smile. “I’ve told you to call me Jae, Akaashi-san. You’re many years my senior; I don’t mind.” Then, his molten gaze finds Bokuto’s, and only then is the spirit struck with the realisation that he can see him.

So he must be some divine or demonic being or whatever, too. 

The look of surprise in his golden eyes is palpable. His gaze flits between the immortal and spirit, but eventually, he purses his lips and steps backward to open the door further to allow them entry. “Come in, Akaashi-san.” A hesitant pause. “And, ah, Bokuto-san, was it? Your death was on the news a few months ago; it made quite the ruckus.” 

Bokuto smiles bashfully. _Right, it was only a few months ago._ “Yeah.”

“They’re here?” Another voice cuts in; this one is pleasant, a little raspy, but honeyed and smooth all the same. The type that pulls you in, but also keeps you on edge at the same time. A petite figure steps out; his dark, brown hair falls before his mismatched eyes, one pink and another brown. His face is littered with piercings; two beneath his eyebrow, two on this bottom lip, four on one ear and two another. And when he speaks, the metal on his tongue catches the light. His slanted eyes curve as a devious sort of smile graces his lips; the type that tells you he’s up to absolutely no good whatsoever. “Akaashi-san,” he greets, somehow making the respectful term sound…well, not respectful, but teasing, perhaps. “And Bokuto Koutarou.”

“You know me too?” Bokuto blurts excitedly, unable to help the rush he feels upon being recognised. 

Beom’s gaze is appraising. “Of course I do. You were from Fukurodani, right? And then you were in MSBY. And news of your death was everywhere. Caused _quite_ the storm, though I doubt that comes as a surprise to anyone at all.”

“Beom,” Hwanjae starts, something in his tone one of warning. 

Beom raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. Make yourselves at home, I’ll make some food before you guys head out.”

Only when he’s gone does Akaashi breathe out a breath Bokuto didn’t even know he’d been holding. _So_ that’s _Beom,_ he thinks. Then, _sure, he’s a troublemaker, but he’s not that bad?_

“Don’t let him fool you,” Akaashi says. “That snake is more than meets the eye.”

“That _snake_ is also my cousin, Akaashi-san,” Hwanjae replies, leading them to the lounge and prompting them to take their seats on the leather couch. “We both know he means well, even though his tongue is sharp.” His gentle golden gaze finds its way to the direction that Beom had left in not long ago, and a sigh leaves his lips. “You can’t blame him.”

“I don’t,” reassures the immortal. “It’s just…” He leans back against the couch slightly. “Well. No point in asking for him to be genuine.”

Hwanjae’s smile is pained. “Sincerity comes differently to demons of his line.”

“He’s a demon?” Interrupts Bokuto, surprised. “Does that make you one too?”

Hwanjae fixes his gaze on the former athlete, then shakes his head. “He’s a demon, but I’m not. He’s—literally—a snake. He was born as one. For me, my true form is that of a reindeer’s. I was a cultivator.” His smile here is a tad more forced. “One of the last, before we were forgotten. I am of the Lower Realm of Heaven.”

“But you guys are cousins…?”

“Second cousins.” Hwanjae takes a seat across from them, clasping his fingers together on his lap. His posture is poised, elegant; a mirror of Akaashi Keiji’s posture. “My mother was his aunt. His father was a snake.”

“What about Shun?” Akaashi asks, creasing his eyebrows in confusion. 

_Why do I feel like I should know who that is?_

Bokuto frowns. _Wait. Why do I_ seriously, really _feel like I should_ know _who that is?_

Hwanjae sighs. “It’s complicated. Beom’s father was cursed. Shun’s father—Beom’s uncle—” Hwanjae supplies in an attempt to clear Bokuto’s confusion “—was not.”

“Talking about family, are we?” Beom’s voice fills the room. He sets down a tray of food and crosses his arms, though he doesn’t seem _too_ annoyed at the topic. He waves his hand dismissively before anyone can apologise. “What are you guys thinking of apologising for? Don’t say you weren’t—it’s written all over your faces. It’s all old news, anyway. Gossip all you want, but remember that I like my fair share of that, too.” He sits down next to his cousin and crosses his legs, leaning against the couch. His sloppy posture is a stark contrast to that of his cousin’s, brazen and uncaring. “Shun’s probably sleeping. He was out on some errand last night. He got back at, like, four in the morning.”

Hwanjae’s eyebrows crease. “How do you know the time he came back?”

“Didn’t sleep,” comes the snake demon’s dismissive reply. His lips curl to reveal his fangs as he grins lazily at his cousin, who only sighs, shaking his head. “What? You _know_ I don’t sleep. Much, anyway.” He shrugs. 

“Eat up. I’m out of rooms, so you guys will have to share one,” he says to Akaashi and Bokuto, ignoring how the former pales a little at his statement, his smirk mischievous and practically _challenging_ them. 

“Sick,” Bokuto replies between his mouthfuls of food. “This tastes _great_ , by the w—”

_Wait._

_How am I tasting this?_

“I have my ways,” Beom says, as though he already knows what Bokuto will ask, amused. “Though, technically, it’s because you’re kind of a special case.”

“How did—”

“Your expression had question marks written all over it. Now eat up and rest up, big boy.”

_Big boy?_

_Akaashi has some weird friends._

He doesn’t know why a part of him feels like he should be blamed for that. 

“Do you really have no free rooms left?” Akaashi says as they finish their meal, his gaze sceptical at best. Bokuto’s head whips up at the sound of his voice immediately; Beom snickers and Hwanjae gives nothing but a helpless sort of smile. “Or an extra futon?”

“What? Scared?” Beom scoffs. “I didn’t think you’d _need_ an extra futon.”

“So you have one.” 

Beom leans back with his hands behind his head, an eyebrow raised as he tilts his head to the side. “Perhaps.” 

“Kohaku, let him live.” 

A new voice enters the fray; this one slaps Bokuto in the face so hard he feels like he’s going to get whiplash. His posture straightens, abruptly, and he glances to the side in the direction of the voice. It’s gentle, but powerful. Deep. Alluring in the same way Beom’s voice is annoying.

_And painfully familiar._

His peach blossom[6] eyes are a deep amber; his hair, dark as onyx, is wavy and almost chin-length, a lock falling before his eyes as he hangs a beige coat on the rack next to the door. If Beom is the sharp sort of danger that constantly keeps you on edge, and Hwanjae the soothing sort of gentle that you know has power beneath it, then this person—Bokuto feels like he already knows who it is—is the sort of confident, gentle danger, forceful in its power. 

_[6] Also a type of eye shape(AKA bedroom eyes LOL). Looks like[this.](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/732654484651769857/755002619638054982/unknown.png?width=444&height=633)_

He pauses in his steps when his eyes land on Bokuto. 

There’s silence. 

He hesitates; his fingers flex at his sides. Clenching, then unclenching, with his shoulders tensed. He’s tall, Bokuto realises, with no surprise. Taller than him. By a few centimetres. But with the poise of a dancer, like Beom. But instead of the snake’s delicate, sharp features, his are more angular, and softer around the edges. And there’s a sort of _surety_ to his movements; confident, ceaseless, fluid, and none of them are unnecessary. 

“ _Shun._ ” Comes the whispered name from Bokuto’s lips, possessed by something even he is unaware of. 

He doesn’t notice the way the others look to him in surprise. Doesn’t notice the stab of surprise and pain in the man’s eyes, though brief. Then he lowers his head, saying, “... Bokuto-san.”

Beom’s gaze is curious, intrigued. Hwanjae’s is pained. And Shun is… a mix of complicated emotions too difficult to pinpoint. Naturally, the snake demon, ever the speaker, cuts the silence short. “How’d you know his name, Bokuto-san?”

A bashful laugh. “Um… lucky guess?”

_You knew him._

How?

**_You knew him._ **

“Sakurai-san,” Akaashi says, rising to bow. Shun’s expression changes and he stops the younger from doing so almost immediately. The scene, Bokuto realises, is familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. And ironic. _What’s with all the damn irony?_

“You don’t have to bow, Keiji,” Shun reassures. The name is a knife to Bokuto’s heart, and again, he thinks, _I want to call him that_ and _you can’t call him that_ at the same time, along with _that’s not fair!_ “Really. And you can just call me Shun. We’ve been over this.” 

Akaashi hesitates, then sighs. “Apologies. Force of habit.” 

“From where?” Beom asks carelessly, rising from his seat to stand swiftly. With his back turned to him, Bokuto notices that the back part of the snake demon’s hair is styled into an undercut, unlike his bangs, which fall past his chin. “Habit from where?”

“Kohaku,” Shun warns at the same time Hwanjae says, _“Beom.”_

But alas, Beom gives zero shits as he keeps his too-keen, too-sly gaze on Akaashi Keiji with his arms crossed. Despite being the shortest in the room, his presence is almost suffocating. Like a snake coiled around its prey, squeezing it to the point of suffocation. His mismatched gaze pins the deity to the ground, and Bokuto feels a surge of protectiveness, though a part of him knows he can fend for himself. 

But Akaashi doesn’t fight back. Instead, he opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, then frowns, a delicate finger pressed against the side of his head as he tilts his head to the side with furrowed brows. “... Somewhere.”

Beom lets out an unimpressed(and unsurprised) huff, stepping back and giving the rest of the room to breathe as he shakes his head. “Thought as much.”

“What’s your problem, man?” Bokuto blurts, without thinking better of it, rising from his seat. Shun’s gaze is surprised, pained. Akaashi’s is one of warning. The spirit pays neither of them any mind as he walks forward to look down at the snake demon, who remains relaxed in the face of his imposing physique and wrath. “You keep asking him questions that he doesn’t seem to be able to answer.”

“Because he _can’t_ answer them,” Beom replies coolly, tilting his head to the side. Gone is the mischievous, pushy brat; this one is more a snake than ever, with its cool gaze and cool head and dry smile. “And neither can you.” 

Bokuto’s hand clenches. 

Shun steps forward abruptly between the two, shooting his cousin a gaze that says, _you and I are going to have a talk after this_ before he looks at Bokuto. “Alright, that’s enough, both of you. G—uh, Bokuto-san. I think it’s best you and Keiji rest for now. You’ve a long night ahead of you when you set out for Miyagi tomorrow.” Then he turns his amber gaze on the deity behind Bokuto’s form. “You _did_ tell him why you were here, right? You can’t _possibly_ have expected to bring him to the Underworld before you settled things with how the situation is right now.” 

Akaashi hesitates. “I’ll tell him before we set out.”

Shun sighs. “Paranoid as ever, aren’t you?”

The deity places his cool and agonisingly familiar gaze on the former athlete. “He’s been here for four months.”

Shun waves them off. “Sure. Just go rest. I trust that Bokuto-san doesn’t mind sharing a room with Keiji?”

He doesn’t.

In fact, he’s almost _eager._

_Something is very,_ very _wrong with me._

“Why don’t you care whether _I’m_ bothered or not?” Comes Akaashi’s jab, interrupting Bokuto’s thoughts. 

Shun smiles. “Keiji, you’d be bothered even if you had a dog instead of a spirit. Now get going.”

Five minutes later, deity and spirit are standing across from each other in the room. Bokuto’s non-functional heart is about to burst out his chest from excitement and _something else,_ despite the awkwardness hanging in the air. Naturally, he breaks it first, asking, “So if Hwanjae-san is a reindeer and Beom is a snake demon, then what’s Shun?”

Akaashi’s gaze is scathingly cold as he strides toward the bed, eyeing it and its size begrudgingly. “He’s a Zhen.”

“A what now?”

He sighs through his nose. “A sort of bird. Poisonous, from head to toe. Mythical.”

Bokuto feels like he should stop being surprised by the word _mythical,_ given that the word itself is slowly starting to mean _reality_ to him, but he finds himself being gobsmacked nonetheless. So he sits down, hesitantly, on the other side of the bed, fidgeting with his fingers like the many times he’s seen Akaashi do(though he’s only seen him do it once or twice). “... I feel like I should know him.” 

The immortal’s reverted back to his usual attire; dark hair tied into a high ponytail and dark, silken robes. He’s untying his waist sash and settling it in the cupboard, but he pauses now. Then he says, “He looked like he knew you.”

Bokuto frowns, then unclasps his fingers. “Yeah.”

“Who _are_ you, Bokuto Koutarou?”

An athlete. A Fukurodani graduate. A man who loves volleyball with all his heart. A man who’s been plagued by dreams of dying ever since he turned ten. A man who can’t stop looking at Akaashi Keiji and thinking that he’s gorgeous, breathtaking, but also feel guilty all the same. A man who’s never touched a sword, but knows the feel of one. 

Then, quietly, he says, “... I don’t know.” 

**——————**

They wake when the sun sets.

“Where are we going?” Bokuto asks Akaashi, who, in turn, looks to Beom, who’s leisurely lounging on the couch. He hears the latter sigh and walk forward, and naturally, he follows, noting that, although the deity seems reluctant with the snake demon most times, he’s never _on edge_ , and there’s a sort of trust between them that Bokuto doesn’t know how to feel about. 

“You heard him.”

Beom whistles. “Rude, Akaashi.” Swiftly, he sits up, then stretches languidly, his movements not unlike a cat as he glances out the window to check the time. Only then does he say, “You’re gonna want to head to Miyagi. That’s where you have to start, anyway. Stay here.” He rises and disappears in the blink of an eye, but when he’s back, he’s giving Akaashi a small pouch of things. “Talismans and herbs for healing from Hwanjae. These are from Shun.” Another pouch, black, is placed in Akaashi’s hand as he mentions Shun’s name. Then another dark green one. “Shun made some poison darts and shit for you in case you run into something tricky and need it dealt with ASAP. I just got you some extra blades and attack talismans, and some protective ones in case you need those.”

This shouldn’t make sense to Bokuto, but it does. Then he asks, “Are those, what do you call them? _Qiankun_ [7] pouches?”

_[7] A **Qiankun bag** (乾坤袋, Qiánkūn dài) was a pouch able to hold more than it appears able to carry. It was used by cultivators to carry large items. Can only hold physical items._

_(Taken from MDZS Wikia, but like, it's a common item in xianxia novels LMAO.)_

“So you _do_ know,” Beom replies immediately, unfazed, unlike the mild surprise on Akaashi’s face. “Unfortunately, big guy, I got none for you for now until I can be sure you _really_ know your shit. So you just gotta watch Akaashi for now.”

“Thanks for letting us stay over,” Akaashi says, when they’re out the door. Beom waves a hand dismissively as he leans against the doorframe, shaking his head in response. 

“‘S nothing. Stay safe out there. Bokuto-san, I trust you to take care of him.”

_“I trust you to take care of him.”_

_“You know I will.”_

_“I won’t be here much longer.”_

_“... I know.”_

_“So you know how important this is to me.”_

_Softer, he says, “I know.”_

Bokuto blinks. 

Beom is still waiting. 

“You know I will.” 

Beom raises an eyebrow. “Then off you go.”

And then he closes the door in their faces before they can muster up a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How much foreshadowing did you catch? What theories do you guys have? Pls,,, let me know,,, am thirsty for feedback and comments. and Kudos. PLS


	4. Filth

* * *

_When he looks back up, there are tears in his gorgeous eyes; the ice thaws and gives way to a well of sharp emotion, even though the rest of his features struggle to maintain their usual calm and composure. “I can’t.”_

* * *

“So, like…” Bokuto begins, ignoring the way Akaashi lets out the softest of sighs as he once more begins to speak, his hands behind his head and gaze cast skywards as both spirit and deity tread through the grass in the light of the still-setting sun, the sky awash with fiery colours of gold and red that have started to make way for purples and pinks and blues in preparation of the coming dark. “Didn’t Beom-kun say that Shun was asleep?”

Akaashi frowns. “He probably went out again. He does things like that often; I doubt they’d bother to question him anymore at this point.” 

Bokuto barks a short laugh, shaking his head. “I guess that _does_ sound like something he would do.”

_Some people never change._

Though he doesn’t know where these thoughts are coming from when he’s never met Shun until today. However, Bokuto _can_ say with confidence that the Zhen is one good-looking man, and this is coming from _him_ , who is _also_ a very good-looking man. At least, that’s how he likes to think, and it’s what a lot of people say. With a face like _that_ , it would be a wonder if he didn’t have any admirers at all! Not to mention his figure, though, really, he’s maintained it more for the satisfaction of seeing his hard work bear fruit. 

They walk in comfortable silence for a few moments more; both footfalls inaudible, though one is as solid as a rock. Bokuto wonders briefly how Akaashi Keiji can be so _quiet_ , so _calm_ , so _small_ , yet so big and stifling and _loud_ (at least to Bokuto) at the same time. It’s like his very presence knocks the breath from the former athlete’s lungs, robbing him of the ability to breathe, to _think._ In fact, the more time they spend together, the more confused Bokuto gets. He can’t quite _fathom_ why he’s such a mess in his presence. It’s in the way he takes one look and thinks, _fuck, how is he so gorgeous?_ And in the way he wonders _Why is it that I notice every small thing he does?_ Because whenever Akaashi Keiji moves to tuck a lock of long, dark hair behind his ear, or when he fiddles with his fingers, he finds his luminescent gaze following his every movement regardless of its significance. 

He wonders if Akaashi notices.

He wonders if he cares.

He wonders why he _wonders_ if he cares. 

Then he wonders _Akaashi, what are you thinking?_

_Do you see me the way I see you?_

_Do you see me and think of me in ways no one else would?_

_What do you see in me?_

Sometimes, sounds come to him, out of nowhere. Visions, fleeting, that flash before his mind’s eye. Ragged breathing, soft skin beneath his calloused fingertips, hands tangled in his hair, scratching down his back, someone calling _Kou_ in a low whine by his ear as a chest presses against his own. And then the thought disappears just as quickly, leaving him hard of breathing and confused and _frustrated_ as he wonders _what the fuck is happening_ and _who the fuck_ was _that?_

In a poor attempt to clear his thoughts, Bokuto clears his throat, asking, “So, uh, _why,_ exactly, are we walking through the forest? We’re going to Miyagi, right?”

Unsurprisingly, he’s met with silence. Bokuto breathes a chuckle, shaking his head and not understanding why all he’s feeling is endearment when he should really be pouting about being ignored. Akaashi’s figure is slender; Bokuto supposes that he’s not wearing too many layers of clothing beneath his silken robes, which make him look slim and long. It’s dark out now; Akaashi simply raises his hand, his finger alight with a cold, blue light, as he draws a few characters in the air. The light forms a trail in the air that lingers, and soon, a complicated-looking character appears in the air, its appearance not unlike calligraphy. The way the colour of gold and fire seeps into the trail it leaves behind like ink on paper is oddly mesmerising, but vaguely unfamiliar, unlike the rest of Akaashi’s movements. And though he feels like he should know the character, Bokuto can’t read it, but a moment after, as Akaashi gives the hovering symbol a small blow, it dissolves into a hovering ball of fire. 

“How did you do that?” Bokuto blurts out, eyes wide. “That’s really cool!”

  
  
Akaashi looks back with a raised eyebrow, then back at the fireball hovering in front of him. Bokuto catches up to him; his shadow looms over the shorter male as he stares at the little, sun-like object. It dances around Akaashi like a creature with conscience; the immortal’s gaze is amused as he follows its movement, watching as it finds its perch in the space between Akaashi and Bokuto’s shoulders. It’s warm, but not too much so, and not too cold, either. It’s _just right._ “It’s a basic spell. One of the first I learned at the Academy.”

Bokuto blinks. “Academy?”

“Bai Ze Academy,” comes the cool reply. Akaashi forges on, prompting Bokuto to follow him as they walk side-by-side. “A cultivation academy from many years ago.”

_Not familiar._

_Well,_ obviously. _It was probably like hundreds of years ago or something!_

“Why isn’t the name familiar?” Bokuto asks eventually.

“Because it’s no longer here, as an academy or otherwise.”

And he elaborates no further. Bokuto frowns, but questions no more as he follows him. He doesn’t last five minutes before he breaks the silence again, this time asking, “We’re going to Miyagi, but we’re walking through the forest. Why can’t we just take the bus? It’s faster that way, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t like the bus. Too many people,” comes the brusque reply. “If not for the way I didn’t know Tokyo like the back of my hand, or how the hour allowed very little people on the bus, I wouldn’t have taken one to Beom’s apartment.” 

_“Why aren’t you going? To the festival.”_

_His gaze is perfunctory. Careless. Bored. Apathetic as usual, he replies, “There’re too many people there. I don’t like it.”_

_“But it’s a celebration! You could at least go for the fireworks or something.”_

_His cool gaze meets a passionate one. Calmly, he says, “No one wants me there. It’s not safe for me, either.”_

_“But—”_

_“I don’t care about the view. I have no time for sightseeing.” Gaze softening, he looks away, his pale fingers tracing the wooden windowsill’s shape in a languid, almost dazed manner. “You go on ahead and have fun.”_

_“K—”_

_“Thanks.” He rises from his seat, sweeping his billowing sleeves once before linking his hands together beneath them. “For inviting me.” A slight pause, then the smallest curve of his lips. “You’re the first. And last.”_

“Then why can’t we walk along the street or something?” Bokuto croaks. Akaashi raises an eyebrow at his odd tone, but says nothing. “Why the forest?”

Akaashi shakes his head. “Even if I told you, you wouldn’t understand.” 

_Now,_ he pouts. Bokuto’s eyebrows furrow and he nearly crosses his arms, but thinks better of it. The fireball flits around the both of them protectively, but when Akaashi holds up his hand, its flames curl into themselves as it hovers above his palm. Tilting his head to the side, he lets it go again to once more dance around the pair of deity and spirit. “Then—”

Akaashi freezes in his steps. “Get down.”

Bokuto blinks. “Wh—”

Akaashi shoves the former athlete’s chest hard, forcing the spirit to soundlessly topple onto the ground as the deity ducks his head low. There’s a whistling sound, then the resounding _thump_ of something colliding with wood. The immortal’s gunmetal blue eyes are alight, like an animal alerted by its enemies, and he scans the area with his sharp gaze. He reaches his hand out and the fireball flies onto it; it extinguishes with a gentle blow. 

They’re close. Akaashi’d toppled over; now he hovers over the spirit’s figure, their chests dangerously close as he surveys the area. 

He thinks of the soft skin, the feeling of nails down his back as someone breathes his name in a long whine. He thinks and he thinks and he _thinks_ until he has to force himself out of his thoughts so he won’t spiral down a cliff he has no intention of falling off of for the time being.

“Wh—”

Bokuto’s words are muffled as a cold palm covers his lips and he’s dragged aside. Akaashi stands up, some sort of weapon in his hands, and not a moment later, a _clang_ of metal against metal reverberates through the air. Then there’s more scuffling; Akaashi’s soundless steps a stark contrast to the heavy ones beating against the brush. Someone grunts. Akaashi pushes forward; in the scarce light of the moonlight, Bokuto can make out the glint of dark metal. 

Akaashi’s movements are elegant, graceful, poised. He blocks, parries, lunges, falls back, his movements swift as flowing water. The blades are unusual; nonetheless, the names come to his head, unbidden, and Bokuto himself wonders how he knows what they’re called.

_Deer horn knives._ [1]

_[1] Look like[this](https://img-new.cgtrader.com/items/985391/e33ad351be/deer-horn-blade-3d-model-low-poly-max-obj-mtl-fbx-unitypackage-prefab-uasset.jpg). If you want to read the super short wiki on it, it's [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deer_horn_knives)._

Somehow, he knows there’s more up Akaashi’s sleeve.

Akaashi jumps, kicks, then falls back when he’s blocked. He steps on the sword and uses his momentum to flip backwards. His landing is graceful. Bokuto stays rooted in place, mesmerised by his grace and ease. 

There’s a resounding _clang;_ Akaashi is forced backwards, a grunt leaving his lips. Bokuto’s ears perk at the sound and he straightens, shaking himself from his daze, a sort of protectiveness filling his chest as he hurries to stand. Akaashi holds up his hands. He’s blocking a heavy-looking saber, and the immortal looming before him is masked, his eyes fierce, as the two struggle to gain the upper hand. When he speaks, his voice is distorted. “You _dare_ show your face to me?”

“I know not of who you are,” comes the curt reply. Akaashi sweeps out his leg; the immortal jumps to avoid it. The masked man throws out a kick. The silk-robed official dodges it nimbly. And then their blades crash again and again; the sound deafening. 

Bokuto’s throat tightens, his lips dry as he thinks, _don’t touch him. Don’t_ touch him. 

The flash of metal. A swift _shink._ A trail of blood appears on Akaashi’s cheek, and Bokuto stares at the red liquid, dumbfounded. 

“No,” comes the reply from the masked man. “But I know who _you_ are. A sinner.” If not for the mask, he would bear an expression akin to a feral animal with its fangs bared. He lunges again, and Akaashi parries with ease. He steps back, kicks, then pushes forward again; it’s an endless but almost soundless dance, save for the chatter and the sounds of metal hitting metal. 

“I have done many things,” comes the vague reply. 

“ _Where is he?_ ” Masked Man questions. 

“I know not of whom you speak of.” 

“ _Lies,_ ” he hisses, gaze ferocious, movements vigorous. “You dare shelter the tainted sun and pretend you do not? You may have survived Heaven’s wrath once, Akaashi Keiji, but mark my words, there will be no second time.”

Akaashi’s movements are as calm as his words. He steps back, then slices forward with his strange blades. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You shelter chaos!” Comes the shrill cry. His movement is sudden, and the harsh blow connects this time. Akaashi releases a grunt as the hilt of the blade connects with his cheek. He staggers, stumbles to the side, regains his balance just as swiftly. But he’s forced to raise his hand to clumsily block the next blow, stumbling backwards once more. “You shelter a divine being whose blood has run foul, and still you dare to oppose us? You _dare_ to oppose the will of Heaven? Have you no fear? No shame? Heaven forgives, Akaashi Keiji, but it does not forget.” His gaze is piercing. “And you have tested the lines once. One too many times.”

“I shelter no one,” comes the reply, irate in its tone. Akaashi tries—and fails, sort of—to strike back, but the heavy-handed masked man allows him no purchase. His blows are relentless. _Stab, stab, stab._

“You _lie,_ ” comes the bitter hiss. His ferocious eyes narrow. “You speak of being alone, and yet, the spirit by your side suggests otherwise.” 

Akaashi’s gaze involuntarily sweeps over to check on Bokuto, who stands frozen in place. Then, he says, “Picked him up along the way. He is of no importance.”

The words hurt more than any mortal wound could.

They hurt more than they _should._

Then, as if to rub salt into the wound, Akaashi follows up and says, “I do not know him.” 

It’s like a stab to the heart, though it’s true. And, like every other time Bokuto looks at him, he finds himself robbed of the ability to breathe, but now, he’s gasping for breath in pain, he’s spiraling down a hole he doesn’t know of, he’s submerged in water, and he’s drowning, drowning, _drowning._

“Lies are of no use to me, Dragon Lord.”

“I am _no such thing._ ” Comes Akaashi’s reply.

A scoff. 

Then, again, “I do not lie.”

“And that, too, is a lie in itself.” 

Taking advantage of the split second before Akaashi’s gaze goes back to the masked man, he uses a knife—it’s small, concealed, and Bokuto almost misses it if not for the glint of metal in the moonlight—and he lunges. Bokuto cries out, his voice hoarse, “Watch out!”

But for all Akaashi’s speed, it is not quick enough.

But Bokuto is moving. He’s running. He’s lunging forward and slapping the knife from the masked man’s hand and kicking and punching him while he’s thinking, _don’t touch him don’t touch him don’t_ fucking _touch him!_

His movements are a blur. He dodges and turns and kicks with a practiced ease, grabbing hold of the blade in a very unorthodox way and ignoring the blood on his palm(though he can’t fathom why when he’s technically _dead_ ). He holds it tight, pulls the deity forward, golden gaze ferocious, before he snaps the blade in half. 

There’s silence. Shocked silence.

Bokuto doesn’t fully register what’s happened until he feels the pain. He looks down at the blood, then blinks, and then he blinks again before looking up to meet the surprised expression of Akaashi and the masked man they’d fought. The air is still, pregnant with pause. 

Then Masked Man laughs. “Good!” He cries, voice shrill. “ _Very good!_ ” He points at Akaashi. “You have brought upon a disaster, you! Once is already one too many times, Akaashi Keiji—do you intend to try Heaven’s wrath once more?”

“How did you do that?” Akaashi asks, ignoring Masked Man, elegant features contorted into a delicate frown. “You’re not supposed to be solid. And you never learned to fight.” 

“I have no idea,” Bokuto relents helplessly. 

“I’ve seen enough today,” spits the masked man. He raises his finger, moves to touch the hilt of his blade at its sheath, only to remember it’s lying in pieces on the ground. “The Heavens will hear of this, Akaashi Keiji. There will be no escape.”

“I stand by my words,” comes the cold reply. “If you doubt my truth, you are free to call for Iwaizumi to test me. No one will believe you. They did not before, they will not again.” Akaashi tilts his head to the side, lips curled ever-so-slightly in a condescending manner. “Would you dare test the former marquis’s patience? He is, after all, the direct subordinate of the Upper Court’s Overseer [2].”

_[2] I don't think this is a thing in xianxia novels, but I made this on my own. It's fairly literal. Overseer I guess would be like_

_the "king" of the Upper Court. They are the only ones who can contact those of the higher plane._

A hiss. “A forked tongue knows no truth. You speak ill as though it is gospel. Your truths are lies, and your lies are truth. Soon, all will see this. Your crimes will come to light.”

“You may frame me as you wish, but only General Iwaizumi’s whip may tell if I am of ill intentions or not.” Akaashi sweeps his sleeves, steps forward, his gaze piercing. “Are you afraid of something?” He tilts his head to the side, apathetic as ever. “Are you afraid I might find something I should not?”

“Snake,” comes the reply. “I have no intention of answering to the likes of _you_.”

“Then you best be on your way, lest I call for a true snake to investigate your identity.”

“Sinner!” Masked Man cries. “You are _filthy,_ Akaashi Keiji. You have always been.”

“Then so be it.” He raises his chin, gaze steady and calm. “If I am filthy, then rolling in the mud will bear no consequence.”

_If I am filthy, then no matter how much I cover myself in dirt, there will be no difference._

_If I am filthy, then I will indulge in the mud that birthed me and rise as the best of my own, rather than pretend to be clean and try to be something I am not._

_If I am filthy,_ **_so be it._ **

The masked man leaves in a fit of anger. One moment he’s there, then, a gust of wind after, he’s gone.

**——————**

“Are you alright?” Bokuto asks after a short bout of silence. Akaashi turns his gaze to him, as though looking at the spirit in a new light. Even so, there’s an uncertain suspicion and hesitance in his eyes, and his delicate lips pull downwards into a frown.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” He asks instead of answering the bicoloured-haired male’s question. Akaashi sweeps his arms and the crossed-crescent blades in his hands disappear, concealed in his sleeve [3]. His gaze is piercing. “That… I have not seen that style of martial arts in a long time, Bokuto Koutarou.”

_[3] Yk how in traditional clothing, the sleeves can be huge and wide and shit?_

_The sleeves are sown on the bottom and half of the front and just a bit on the back. (Or smth like that). Either way, you can store shit in there._

_Calling me by my full name even though you’re younger than me—where’s your respect?_ Bokuto wonders bitterly, only to remember that Akaashi _is_ older than him, by several centuries at the very _least_. And so, he shoves the thought aside, clearing the frown from his face as he tilts his head to the side in thought. “I said it already, didn’t I? I have no _fucking_ idea.” _I just know I didn’t want them to touch you._

Why?

_Because you’re…_

What?

_… what are you, Akaashi?_

_What are you to me?_

Akaashi frowns, unconvinced, oblivious to the spirit’s conflict as he turns around and sweeps his billowing sleeves once to gather his bearings, hooking his hands together beneath them as he looks around to survey the remains of the clearing left in the wake of their previous battle. But he questions no further, instead opting to turn around. Taking a hand from beneath his sleeve, he ignites his finger and once more draws the character in the air, blowing on it to breathe life into the flame that hovers before him. “Let’s keep going,” he says finally, after the flame perches on Bokuto’s shoulder. 

“Are we almost there?” The former athlete asks, hurrying to follow Akaashi, lest he lose him(seeing that the latter clearly has no intention of waiting for him to follow). “We’ve been walking for _ages._ ” _We even got into a fight!_

The immortal’s gaze is scathing. “Be patient.” 

“Patience isn’t my _thing_ , Akaashi!”

An apathetic snort. “Now’d be a good time to start practicing it, then.”

“ _Akaashi!_ ”

“Calling me without honorifics. You’re rather daring, aren’t you?”

_But honorifics don’t feel_ right _when I’m talking to you._

The woods in front of them once more make way, revealing a stone far taller and wider than the both of them combined. In the moonlight and flames of the fireball, Bokuto can only barely make out a few carvings on it. The jagged boulder is worn from the forces of nature, but even so, the ink on it remains as good as new. 

Like the day it was first made. 

Bokuto blinks. 

_But how would I know that?_

“It’s a distance-shortening array [4],” Bokuto blurts, then blinks _again._ “... How do I know that again?”

_[4] Just... imagine an array of symbols drawn in a certain pattern. You need spiritual energy to power it. This one is basically a drawn portal lol._

Akaashi’s gaze is calculating. “You tell me.”

“Well then, Akaashi, I’m sorry, but I really got nothing to tell you when I have no idea what the fuck is happening _myself._ ”

Silence falls between the both of them like a blanket as both cast their gazes on the boulder. The pattern is intricate, but he can vaguely make out a circle as the outermost shape, followed by some geometrical figures within themselves. A circle, an octagon, a few more something-gons with a triangle at the centre. At each point of the octagon, there are a few characters written in ink, and Bokuto is struck by how the handwriting is—

He pales a little, then leans forward to look at it. 

_What the fuck?_

“Is something wrong?” Akaashi asks, coming up beside Bokuto. “Though I doubt you’d be able to tell if there _was_ anything strange. This array is…” Akaashi frowns. “Special. Intricate. One of very few.”

“Do you know who made it?” Bokuto asks in a rush, fearing the rapid rush of his heartbeat as he, for once, finds his attention wholly on something else rather than the dark-robed man next to him. 

“He was an expert at war. A distinguished cultivator,” comes the reply. Akaashi’s pale fingers trace the patterns with a frown as he tilts his head to the side, a crease forming between his brows. “He made this array on his own. The others, too—only he had the power to pull it off. And the knowledge; he knew the Old Nation like the back of his hand. I…” The immortal hesitates, frowns, then falls completely silent. Anxious, Bokuto finally turns to glance at him, only to find him lost in thought. 

“I knew him, I think,” Akaashi finally relents, his speech haughty, hesitant. “Once.”

Bokuto doesn’t understand why he doesn’t question it further. Perhaps it’s the pain in Akaashi’s eyes, the confusion, the anguish. Maybe it’s his _own._ He doesn’t know, but he drops the topic in the end, albeit with reluctance. He steps away from the boulder, thinking, _… I guess it can’t be helped._

The atmosphere turns sour. Even so, Akaashi lifts his hand to press it against the jagged stone, and it glows with power. The ink on the boulder lights up, the characters engraved at each point of the octagon coming forth. Akaashi moves his hands in a motion not unlike spinning a wheel before he stops it at a certain character. When he brushes it, it splits and branches out to more names. The soft, warm glow of gold from the activated array is a stark contrast to the deity’s cold and hard features. 

Finally, he settles on a name(Bokuto can’t help but wonder how old the deity must be to be able to read such old, traditional characters) and, as soon as his fingers brush over it, the rest of the characters disappear. When the former athlete blinks again, the polygons in the circle are gone, replaced by the night view of Miyagi within the circle. 

He feels proud, for some reason. 

Akaashi walks forward; as usual, he doesn’t bother to look back to make sure Bokuto is following him. He steps through and pauses, saying, “If you don’t come through now, it will close.”

He hurries to follow.

True to the dark-robed man’s words, as soon as Bokuto steps through, the sounds of the forest(which he hadn’t been aware were _there_ to begin with) disappear. He glances back, only to be met with nothing but air and buildings. Akaashi has once more swapped his long robes for casual wear, wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting pants and a dark shirt tucked into the waistband. In exchange for his handy sleeve pockets, he has a bag slung over his shoulder; it’s not too big, nor too small. 

“Akaashi-san!” 

A bright voice reaches their ears, and Bokuto is struck by the familiarity of it. He whips around to meet bright, brown eyes, and before he can think better of it, he blurts, “Hinata-kun?”

Hinata Shouyou stops in his steps as he stares, dumbfounded, at Bokuto. Then Akaashi. Then Bokuto again. And then he goes, “Holy shit, you guys _met_ each other?”

Akaashi frowns. “I picked him up along the way. He was wandering around this realm with unresolved grievances. If I let him stay for too long, he’d be a thorn in our sides.”

Hinata hesitates. “Um, sure he will. I mean—that’s great, though! You’re helping him!” 

“Wait, hold up,” Bokuto begins. “You’re telling me that _you’re_ an immortal too? I’ve been playing fucking volleyball with a fucking _god?_ ” He pauses, then continues. “What? Wait—I saw you grow up, though? You went from some shitty little crow to a really good ninja!”

Hinata’s expression looks as though he’s caught between the urge to laugh and cry, but he can’t decide which option to choose. So he goes, “That, uh. Um.” He looks helplessly at the deity next to Bokuto, who offers him no assistance, forcing him to fend for himself as he awkwardly scratches the nape of his neck. “It’s hard to explain, but! But we have ways to—to fabricate… memories…” He trails off, voice getting softer, but still loud enough for Bokuto to hear. He stares, dumbfounded, but before he can get another word in edgewise, Hinata plows on. “And I’m not the only deity friend of yours, Bokuto-san. You’re sort of, uh, surrounded by us.”

He blinks.

“ _What?_ ”

Hinata grins, albeit a little bashfully. “Yeah! And, well. You never really change.”

“Wh—hey! I’ve changed _plenty!_ I got taller! Better!”

The orange-haired male gives a smile. “You sure did!”

“Hinata,” Akaashi cuts in. “Where are we staying?”

_We,_ Bokuto thinks giddily. _He said ‘we’. Not ‘me and him’. Or even just ‘I’._

‘We’.

Hinata snaps out of it. “Oh, right! Well, Kageyama and I decided through rock-paper-scissors, and I lost, so you’re staying at one of my shelters. I’ll take you there now!”

“Which one are we going to?”

“You came here to investigate, right? So you’re going to the one with more of the demons around. They wanted to talk to you, anyway.”

“And Heaven still hasn’t arrested you for sheltering them?”

Hinata laughs. “How could they? I’m not sheltering them, but I’m not oppressing them, either. I’m just letting ‘em hang around. And it’s not like every deity is as rigid as Ushijima-san. But even _that_ dude has more than a few demon friends.”

_Heaven is a corrupted system,_ a voice whispers. _It was changed before, and it will change again._

Bokuto blinks.

_What?_

But there’s nothing. 

_Was that me? Was_ I _thinking that?_

“So what _is_ happening, exactly?” Akaashi asks. “A matter as small as this shouldn’t require my attention.”

“No,” Hinata replies. He doesn’t seem to mind that Bokuto is listening to what he assumes should be a very important discussion, and it isn’t like Akaashi has protested either. “But the thing is, you know how I had to relocate for a few years?”

“You mean ‘take some time off’.”

“Relocate.”

Akaashi’s gaze is perfunctory. “... ‘ _Relocate_ ’.”

“Right!” Hinata snaps his fingers, then continues. “Anyway. It started a year after I relocated. And, the funny thing is, it still hasn’t been resolved.” He hesitates here, then lowers his voice. “Someone is covering it up.”

Akaashi frowns. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

The orange-haired man nods frantically. “I know! But _think about it_! It’s been _years._ And this involves mortal lives. There’s _no way_ a demon could have covered this up for so long without leaks. No matter how powerful, they’d at least need _some_ help. And Heaven has plenty of peo—”

“Quiet. Speak no further,” Akaashi hushes, glancing around in a very subtle manner. “You forget your place. There are too many ears here.”

Hinata obediently shuts his mouth and continues forward. “Anyway, here we are.”

It’s an apartment building. Hinata enters it with a familiar ease, and Bokuto notices the way at least half of the room immediately has eyes on him. 

Speaking of, was this building always in Miyagi?

“Kitsu-kun!” Hinata calls. The man at the reception raises his head; his dark locks fall before his honey-coloured eyes, his features sharp and beautiful in a way that humans are not. Hinata turns back and smiles at Bokuto and Akaashi. “This is Kitsu-kun. He’s a kitsune! We just call him that because he forgot his name a long time ago. He’s the manager here.”

Kitsu bows his head, then speaks. “Akaashi-sama. Bokuto-sama. I hope your stay will be to your tastes.”

“Hold up,” Bokuto interrupts. “Has this apartment complex always been here?”

Hinata’s smile is mischievous. “I wonder, I wonder!”

Akaashi shakes his head. “There’s a fine line between illusion and magic, Bokuto-san. This world we live in is rife with both.”

Someone crashes into the lobby. The people around immediately tense up as another fox spirit pants, then glances upward, searching for Hinata. “Hinata-sama!” He starts, hurrying forward despite his painful gasps for breath. “There’s been another attack.”

“Just our luck,” comes the orange-haired deity’s reply. He turns to Akaashi and Bokuto, then asks, hesitant, “... Will Bokuto-san be following us?”

This gives the other pause, and his gunmetal blue gaze sweeps over the spirit’s figure. Something about the way he scans Bokuto sends ambiguous shivers down his spine, even though he knows there’s no meaning to it when he can practically _see_ the gears turning in the deity’s head. Finally, he says, “I want to see what he can do.”

Hinata blinks, but when the fox spirit starts to usher him again, he drops the topic. “... Alright. Then follow me. Lead the way.”

**——————**

“Quickly,” the fox spirit says as he weaves seamlessly through the alleys of Miyagi with the ease of someone who’s walked through them at least a million times. The three follow him in silence, their movements coordinated, as though they themselves have worked together like this a million times before. “This way.” The further they go, the quieter his voice becomes, and that’s how they know they’re nearing their target.

They stop by a house, resting by the wall of its backyard. The fox spirit fidgets and twitches nervously; his white ears flick in every which way in an attempt to hear as much as possible as his tail swishes about in anxiety. His voice but a mere hiss now, he says, “Inside. They’re still inside.”

Akaashi takes a deep breath. Then he draws another character in the air before jumping up and pushing the character forward with the palm of his hand. A deafening screech fills the air and he’s in action; jumping over the wall and slashing his crossed-crescent blade through… _something._

There’s a _thump._

In the end, Bokuto doesn’t have to do anything at all.

The three follow into the room. Lying on the bed is a corpse sucked _dry_. Her skin is sunken, pallid, grey, sickly thin with her eyes rolled up and her wiry hair spread over the pillows. She’s dead at this point. And on the floor is some sort of humanoid _creature_ that stinks of death and the fucking garbage that you haven’t thrown for a week. It’s heaving and growling and its eyes are just _black_ and its fangs are bared in hatred. If anything, it looks like a walking corpse, and judging from the smell of rot, it might well be. 

Akaashi casts it no second glance as he sets it alight. 

It goes up in flames; its screams are endless even when its ashes have been swept away. Quietly, the deity whispers a phrase, like some sort of mantra, before he turns to the other corpse on the bed. “Her soul has been sucked clean. She will have no way of reincarnating.”

“Hinata-sama!” Another kitsune crashes into the house. “The woman lives alone. The neighbours are preparing to come and investigate the commotion—Kageyama-sama has seen to the other three cases. We must leave immediately!” 

Akaashi frowns. “Three?”

“That’s four cases tonight,” Hinata says. frowning. “That’s two more than usual.”

The fox spirit’s expression is helpless as he casts a glance at his comrade, whose expression mirrors his own as he says, “My Lords, we must leave _now._ ”

Hinata turns to the deity and spirit. “Both of you should go back first. You look like you’ve had a rough night—this goes to you, too, Bokuto-san. I’ll investigate this matter for a little more with Kageyama.”

“Report to me first thing in the morning,” Akaashi sighs, relenting after a moment of hesitant silence. Then he turns to take his leave. 

**——————**

Bokuto’s sleep that night is not dreamless, which, really, shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone anymore.

This time, the gunmetal blue-eyed beauty is driving a knife into his side, hissing, “You’re a liar like the rest of them.”

And Bokuto is saying, “I’m not! I’m _not._ If I’d known—”

“You _wouldn’t have done anything!_ ” Akaashi twists the knife. Bokuto chokes out a low groan of pain, his hand over the other’s trembling one on the blade, but he doesn’t force him to pull the blade out. “You _wouldn’t._ You’re liars, the lot of you. You all hate me.”

The pendant glints around his neck. Even in pain, Bokuto finds it and its wearer breathtaking. “I would never lie to you,” he replies, softly. “Keiji, _trust me._ ”

When he looks back up, there are tears in his gorgeous eyes; the ice thaws and gives way to a well of sharp emotion, even though the rest of his features struggle to maintain their usual calm and composure. “I _can’t._ ”

“You _can._ ”

He reaches up to pick at the pendant. “This is proof. Proof of my trust in you.” His golden eyes meet the tears ones above him. “So why can’t you trust _yourself?_ Trust _me?_ ”

Akaashi’s grip loosens. He pulls the dagger out, sobbing, trembling, and Bokuto gasps for breath as the wound starts to heal itself. 

_This is different,_ the Bokuto watching the dream thinks in bewilderment. Because the wound is healing when it didn’t so many times before.

“They’re terrible,” Akaashi whispers, bringing his hands together to anxiously pull at his fingers. “They called me filthy. They said I _made_ them filthy. But what does that have to do with them touching me?”

Bokuto freezes. “They did what?”

Akaashi shakes his head and rises from his position, ignoring the blood pooled on the floor as he stalks out of the room. “Goodnight, Bokuto-san.”

He doesn’t even give Bokuto a chance to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this marks the official beginning of Arc 1!!!  
> Leave a comment of what you think is gonna happen, or drop a kudos, don't be shy ;DDDDDD  
> I've been going wild with updates recently. HAHAHAHAHAH


	5. Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of blood and rape.  
> haVE AN EARLY UPDATE!!!

* * *

_“I want you to let me make them suffer. Because if you do, then I don’t care how much I hate you; your word will be my law, and I will follow it. I will follow you. ”_

* * *

_It’s kind of unfair,_ Bokuto thinks as he watches Akaashi’s delicate eyebrows furrow, his thin lips turned down into a frown. _How pretty this guy is._

It really, truly is. It’s a pain, too, when that stupid face is all he can focus on during times like these. Painful, because he shouldn’t be staring. Painful, because he doesn’t know how to be subtle about it. Painful, because Akaashi Keiji is not his to look at, will never be, he thinks, and he has no right to stare. Which is a fact that the immortal chooses to make prominent at this very moment as he opens his mouth to say, bemused and not bothering to look over at Bokuto, “Why are you staring at me?”

Bokuto jerks, looks away, a flush clear on his ghostly features as his ears flush red. He wonders how he can feel that heat when he’s clearly, well, _dead_ , and then he wonders if he should be grateful for that fact. “Nothing. It’s just, you know. You’re…” He clears his throat, uncharacteristically bashful, before saying, “You’re really pretty.”

Akaashi stiffens in his seat. Hinata nearly spits out his food. The former’s so still he might well be a statue, and the orange-haired deity next to him looks ready to admit defeat, what with his shaking shoulders and near-choking as he tries to swallow the last of his food before he can choke(though he definitely wouldn’t die). “Akaashi-san, aren’t you going to thank him for the compliment?” He asks through bouts of laughter, trying and failing(but still shying away) to stop his laughter when the dark-robed immortal focuses his cold gaze on him. “He means it, though! He’s _blushing!_ And he’s a _ghost!_ He shouldn’t even be _able_ to blush!”

Clearly not used to being complimented, the deity on the other side of Bokuto’s seat merely returns to his meal. Though it could be counted as lunch, since it’s three in the afternoon, it’s their first meal of the day. Though it’s mostly Hinata who’s been eating; Akaashi picks at his food, barely even taking a mouthful for each bite, and the bi-coloured-haired male is dead. The food passes right through him and drops back onto the chair; at a time like this, he has no solid form. “No.” Akaashi’s strained but ever-so-cool voice reaches Bokuto’s ears, and he can’t help laughing himself. The deity’s so still and poised that, if not for the stiff way he handles his food(he hadn’t been doing that before) and the rigid set of his jaw, Bokuto would have thought he hadn’t been affected by the compliment to begin with. So the athlete leans forward, eager to tease again, like old times. 

“C’mon, Akaashi!” He coos, placing the flat of his palms on the table. “Say thanks, won’t you? It’s a compliment! You’re meant to _thank_ people after being complimented. Didn’t your parents ever teach you that?”

“My parents were killed,” comes the deadpan reply, cool in its nature. Detached, in a way. As though he’s already come to terms with their deaths, the way they’d left the world. Stunned into silence, Bokuto’s open mouth closes slowly, and the air hangs heavily between them. Akaashi doesn’t bother to look up from his food, but, gently, he pushes it aside; it’s only half-eaten. Barely half-eaten. Even knowing that immortals don’t need sustenance, the athlete can’t help but worry.

“... oh.” Bokuto finally says. Hinata quietly starts to eat again, finishing his third bowl of rice. “I, uh. I’m sorry.”

Only then do cool, gunmetal-blue eyes meet with his as the immortal shakes his head, folding his hands beneath his large sleeves. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

“How long?” The question leaves his lips before it can stop him, and briefly, Bokuto wonders if it’s rude, since it’s basically a roundabout way of asking how old he is(kind of) and, technically, Akaashi is old. Like, elder old. 

His question is answered regardless. The immortal’s cool voice cuts through his thoughts as he says, “Millenia ago.” Akaashi tilts his head to the side, frowning, slightly distressed, as though he’s remembering how old he truly is for the first time. “I… can’t remember.” He hesitates. “I don’t even remember their _faces_ , Bokuto-san. I was too young, then. Four, I think.” 

_Four._

_Orphaned at four._

_And then what?_

The thought is unnerving. 

Hinata breaks the silence. “Akaashi-san, what do you plan on doing?” He finally finishes his food, setting it aside to stand. Unlike Akaashi, his clothes are more casual, more like the Hinata Bokuto is familiar with. _Maybe he’s grown used to hanging around mortals,_ Bokuto thinks. _Maybe Akaashi doesn’t hang out much._

The thought saddens him a little. 

He pushes it aside in favour of the conversation before him rather than the thoughts he almost spirals into. “Going to ask around,” Akaashi says, glancing out with the smallest hint of a frown(again). “I need to know more.”

“You should try asking Kageyama,” Hinata suggests easily. “He’s been investigating. He might know more. He’s good at what he does, anyway.”

The fact that Kageyama Tobio is an immortal, too, doesn’t even surprise Bokuto anymore. He wonders just how many of his friends _aren’t_ from the Heavenly Realms. He doubts anyone from the Higher Plane has bothered to descend, but seriously, he’s surrounded by _too many_ of these godly beings. Is it really just a coincidence?

But even if it isn’t, Bokuto can’t even begin to _fathom_ why.

“Alright,” comes the reply. Akaashi checks through his things to make sure all is in order; his weapons, his _qiankun_ pouches, and more of the like. Then he begins to take his leave, prompting Bokuto to hurriedly rise from his seat to follow him. Used to the spirit’s presence, the immortal doesn’t protest, and Bokuto waves the orange-haired man goodbye. 

When the door closes, Hinata sighs, sags against his chair, too tired to be excited, too excited and charged to stay still. 

_Kageyama,_ he thinks to himself. _If you don’t choke when you see them together, I’m going to do your errands for a whole year for you._

**——————**

Kageyama Tobio is sipping on milk when he sees them. 

He chokes. 

When Akaashi and Bokuto arrive in front of him, his back is turned to them and he’s pounding his chest, hacking and coughing as he rapidly tries to regain his composure. His ears are red from embarrassment, and, five seconds later, when he turns around, feigning control, he can’t help but flick his eyes between the two again. 

_Holy shit._

_If Hinata didn’t say ‘holy shit’ the first time he saw them, I’m doing his errands for the next year._

Because, what, and Kageyama _cannot_ stress this enough, _the fuck._

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Akaashi-san,” Kageyama replies, all-too-quickly, unable to keep the astonishment from his features. He is, after all, still a young immortal. “I—what are you guys doing tog—here! _Here._ What are you guys doing _here?_ ” He finally manages to say. Akaashi tilts his head to the side. 

“We wanted to ask you a few questions about the demons in this area.”  
  


Kageyama, deities bless him, catches on immediately. He sobers and turns around, throwing a glance over his shoulder before he says, “Follow me.” Because there are ears everywhere, and, if his suspicions are right, not even their own can be trusted. Better safe than sorry. 

Akaashi and Bokuto quietly follow him. The three of them enter a—temple, maybe? The spirit blinks. “Why are we here?”

Kageyama looks over. “It’s safer to talk here. The Crown Prince of Xianle’s temple is a place of refuge; there will be no eavesdropping. The walls are deaf and blind here.”

_a/n: yes, it’s a direct reference to TGCF. I have no shame._

“The Crown Prince of _what now?_ ”

Kageyama bristles. “We don’t call him that here, though. Not anymore. You just need to know he’s from the Higher Plane. Technically, he’s also the god of misfortune, but there’s too much to say on that. It’s safe here.”

“So we call him—” Bokuto glances around, stares at a plague, squints so he can see it better, before saying “—Kakanbudo-shin-sama?”

“It’s from his Chinese title,” Akaashi explains. “In any case, he visits us from time to time. That’s not important right now.” He turns to Kageyama, then gestures for him to speak. “Go on.”

“The truth is that this case has been ongoing for a few months at best. A few years at worst.” Kageyama waves his hand once, and suddenly they’re seated behind the two statues of deities, both made of gold. None of the mortals take notice of them, anyway. One deity is simply dressed in flowing robes and a straw hat; another is dressed somewhat more extravagantly, an eyepatch covering his right eye. They stand together as equals, almost like lovers. Bokuto wonders briefly why none of them are kneeling to them, and instead, only standing there to give their prayers, but before he can ask, he’s interrupted by the dark-robed immortal next to him.

“Why was I summoned to investigate _now_ , of all times, then?” Akaashi frowns. “It’s been ongoing for so long. And this case should have been handled way before that.”

“Exactly,” comes the enthusiastic, heated reply. “It _shouldn’t have_ , but it _did._ We only found out when someone important—he was blessed by Heaven—died. Which was when we summoned you.”

Akaashi frowns. “But even if it was the work of a powerful demon, that shouldn’t be possible. Information can’t be covered so easily.”

“Unless someone from the Heavens was covering for them,” Kageyama replies. 

Akaashi’s gaze hardens. This line, again, from Kageyama. It’s unnerving at best. “You and Hinata have said this. Do you know what you’re talking about?”

“We do!” Kageyama replies, voice rising a tad, his tone heated. Then he softens his tone. “We _do._ But, think about it, Akaashi-san—who else could suppress the flow of information, even _stopping it_ , so thoroughly? If not even a demon as powerful as _him_ can do it, then how can this be stoppered so completely? They had to have had help. There’s no way this was done by one person.” Kageyama raps his knuckles on the table. “There’s something big going on here.”

“That’s too big of an assumption,” Akaashi replies briskly. “Even if an official _was_ behind the suppressing of information, Heaven has never been pure. For all we know, it could have been a grudge, and then he just continued to cover it up because he didn’t want to be discovered. Or she. Or they.”

Kageyama shakes his head. “Not if there’s a pattern. Not if the demons are moving like they’re being ordered around. They’re a rogue species, Akaashi-san. They don’t _take_ orders, and they don’t follow them even if they’re forced to if they are. And they don’t move together.”

His frown deepens. “... You’re right. That’s suspicious.”

And then there’s Bokuto, trying to comprehend what the _hell_ these two are talking about. So he asks, “Speaking of which, what the fuck _were_ those things?” He places his palms on the table, tilts his head to the side in an almost owlish manner. “They looked disgusting.”

“They’re a low-level demon,” Akaashi replies. “They devour the souls of people.”

“ _That’s_ low-level?”

“All demons want something from the living. This sort—the one we saw—is low-level because it’s not that powerful. It’s easy to get rid of. They’re just annoying because they travel in packs even if they don’t work together; most of the time, they fight for their own food. Some are hungry enough to attack and eat their own while they’re on the run.” Akaashi shakes his head. “We usually call them ghouls.”

“How do we get rid of them, then?”

“You can’t kill them without a spiritual weapon,” Kageyama supplies, taking out a sword and laying it on the table. “Like this one.”

“What makes a spiritual weapon different?”

“... it has spiritual energy in it. Of its own. Ordinary weapons won’t work unless you channel your own spiritual energy into your strike, but that tires us out more, so most of us go for spiritual weapons. But if you’re lucky, you can get a divine weapon.”

“What—”

“Anyway,” Akaashi cuts in. “What else do you have to tell us?”

Kageyama retrieves his sword, gently sheathing it before he continues to speak. “The attacks started to kick up two days ago.”

Akaashi frowns, then turns to Bokuto, eyes narrowed. “That’s when I picked you up. Two days ago.”

Kageyama blinks. “You… _picked him up?_ Like, off the roadside, like some stray?”

“Yes.”

He feels like he’s going to faint as he thinks, _what the fuck?_

“Is there a problem?” Akaashi asks, cutting through the blue-eyed male’s astonished silence. He’s straight up _gawking_ at this point; eyes flickering between the two as the gap between his lips grows wider. His disbelief is as palpable as it is discomforting. Why is he so surprised?

Kageyama hurries to shake his head, finally gathering what little of his wits he’s got left as he leans back against his seat, running a hand through his hair. “No, no, there isn’t.” He pauses, then looks around. “It’s just… if things started kicking up after the both of you met, then don’t you think that’s suspicious?” 

Akaashi frowns, his expression mirroring Bokuto’s. The cold-eyed immortal focuses his attention on the spirit, who stares back. He can see the gears turning in his head as he analyses the situation over and over, wondering just how their meeting comes into play with all of this, but, evidently, he comes up short when his lips curl further downwards and he shakes his head. “It doesn’t add up. I don’t even know Bokuto.”

“But he knows you, doesn’t he?” 

Kageyama’s voice is quiet; it throws them both off-guard. There’s an uncharacteristic tone of caution in the way he speaks as his gaze flicks between them both. He clears his throat awkwardly, then speaks again, his voice slightly louder. “Bokuto-san knows you. He doesn’t know how or why or whatever yet, but he _knows_ you, Akaashi-san.”

“You’re not making any sense.” 

But Bokuto’s dead heart is skipping beats, flushing his skin, causing his head to pound. _‘He knows you.’ I know him. I know Akaashi Keiji. But how, how,_ how? 

How does he know Akaashi Keiji? 

“You believe him, don’t you?” Akaashi’s cool voice cuts through his thoughts, and Bokuto turns to look over at him. He smiles sheepishly, hesitantly rubbing the nape of his neck as he drums the fingers of his free hand against the table, pulled from thin air and the colour of ebony. He traces the swirling patterns of wood on its smooth surface, trying to calm his dead, beating heart. 

“Akaashi, remember what you said when we first met? You said that you might know me. I knew your name before you even spoke a word to me. You said it yourself, too, didn’t you?” Bokuto finally looks up. His hands still. “You did. So did I. _I know you,_ Akaashi. I just don’t know how.” 

“... not _yet._ ” Comes Kageyama’s response. Bokuto opens his mouth to question, but, as though he’s said too much, the deity rises from his seat, prompting Akaashi to follow suit and the spirit to stumble to his feet just before the chairs and table disappear. “I’ll get some demons to compile some info for you guys to read up on. The Sun is setting soon. Might want to start gearing up.” 

“Is Junya in town?” 

Kageyama shakes his head. “He’s out right now. But you’ll see him eventually if you stay long enough.”

Akaashi shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

“Bokuto-san,” Kageyama says, turning his gaze to Bokuto. Though the former isn’t an expressive person, his eyes shine with a sort of sadness, melancholy, and the corner of his lips turns up ever-so-slightly in the ghost of a smile. “When this is over, let’s play volleyball together again.”

He doesn’t know why that phrase punches him right in the heart and where it hurts most, but somehow, he croaks, “... Yeah. One day.”

_Even though I don’t think I’ll be solid enough to play it ever again._

**——————**

“Where are we going?” The spirit asks as they stroll through the barely-lit streets of Tokyo, hands behind his back. His steps are slightly slower than Akaashi’s, though his long legs make it easy for him to keep up with the immortal official. “This isn’t the road back to Hinata’s, right?”

“We’re taking a detour,” comes the dismissive reply. Bokuto almost opens his mouth to ask why, but closes his mouth not too long after, knowing it’s of little use when it’s likely that Akaashi Keiji will just brush him off instead. The silence falls between them like a blanket, and the spirit opts to cast a cursory gaze around the area. 

It’s clearly an old one, if not a poor one. Buildings with paint peeling off their walls, cracked concrete walkways, worn-out markings on the road. Not to mention there being barely any cars around the area and the dimly-lit lamps. And the reek of garbage. Most of the buildings here have their lights off, and even then, those that _do_ look brash, shady, like a place you’d go for a good fuck, or to get so high and wasted that you’d think your right foot was your left hand and your fingers were your toes. Bokuto can’t even _begin_ to fathom why Akaashi might think this is a good place to ‘detour’ through, but doesn’t bother to ask. He’ll find out soon, anyway. 

The both of them turn a corner and nearly run straight into a group of strangers. Akaashi halts in his steps, tilting his head to the side, then speaks, “Wait.”

They stop. 

It’s a group of four; all male. None of them look like the type to stand out in the crowd, but at the immortal’s command, they stop, their movements too still, too graceful, to be human. Akaashi opens his mouth to speak. “You’re familiar with the area, right? I have some questions for you.”

They turn around, sizing them up. Bokuto realises with a jolt that they’re staring at _him_ , too. And that’s really the only giveaway that they’re nothing close to human. 

“Don’t take away our skins[1],” one of them says harshly. He’s got narrowed eyes and a shaved head, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He’s the tallest of the group, with piercings on each ear and his chest puffed outwards, as though that will make him all-the-more intimidating despite the fact that he’s at most a head shorter than Bokuto himself. He tries not to laugh.

_[1] Literally human skins that the demons "wear". They're dead people, but the demons(in this case, these demons are wandering ferocious spirits,_

_which are basically spirits with a lot of unchecked grievances like Bokuto but are more powerful) put on these dead skins so they can feel human again._

_Once it starts to decay and rot, they'll toss it away and look for a new one. For this story, their being in the corpse delays the process quite a bit, but_

_it's not important enough for me to mention, so I'm just writing it here instead._

  
“If you cooperate,” comes the cool reply. The deity calmly folds his hands together beneath his thick sleeves, tilting his head to the side before continuing. “Shall we?”

He misses the way the other demons stare at him in something other than just _hunger._ Something like it, but not at the same time. 

Moments later, they’re in a shadowed alley. Akaashi leans against the wall, his gaze calculating as he watches the four demons. “Tell me about the ghouls.”

The leader snorts. “I truly wonder what Heaven does all day. It’s been going on for _years,_ and only _know_ , after some blessed one dies, do you immortals bother to send word to stop these murders. Where’s the so-called benevolence? The great-timing?” He rolls his eyes, licks his lips, movements almost serpentine. “Ridiculous.”

Akaashi doesn’t budge. “I asked a question. You have five more seconds.”

One of the demons snorts. “Or what? You going to wrap your pretty little hands around our throats?” His mouth curls into a filthy grin. “Because, darling, I think your hands are better suited to wrap somewhere _else,_ if you catch my drift.” He winks. 

Bokuto’s hand clenches into a fist. “Answer him, dickwad.” _Asshole. Fucktard. Not even the ugliest immortal would fuck your ass._

“Ooh, I’m _so_ scared,” he hisses back, his smile turning provocative. “Is the little ghost going to try and punch me?” He bares his teeth. “Try it, little one. I dare you. Watch how I suck your essence so dry your core shatters.” His voice takes a dive. “It’ll be so scattered you won’t be able to be put back together. Do you know what that means? _It means you’ll never be able to come back again._ No reincarnation or all that bullshit. You’ll just be _gone._ And no one will be left to remember you by the next century.”

“My patience _thins,_ demon,” Akaashi cuts in coolly, calm as ever despite the tone of caution in his voice. His arms are crossed tight over his form, his gunmetal-blue eyes glowing in the dark. His shadow stretches before him, giving him a very different sense of _other_ that he didn’t have before. Bokuto shudders involuntarily, as do the rest of them. “I won’t ask again.”

“We don’t know who’s behind them,” the leader snaps. “We don’t. They just appeared out of nowhere and started taking our food. These ghouls don’t fight with each other, they don’t eat each other, they don’t even fight for territory. And they understand human speech. Language. How fucking wild is that?” He laughs, shakes his head. “Ridiculous. And someone’s been ordering them around.”

Akaashi’s eyes narrow. “You’re not telling me everything.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, pretty boy?” He coos back, baring his fangs, narrowing his eyes as he slithers forward ever-so-slightly. “You would, wouldn’t you? But I haven’t even named the price for our information yet. What makes you think I’d give you everything just like _that?_ ” 

Akaashi meets the demon’s gaze with his own, cold and harsh in the way he does so. “Name it, then.” 

“Well…” A hand comes up to gently brush Akaashi’s arm through his sleeve. Bokuto bristles, feeling something dark in his chest as he watches the demon touch the cold-faced immortal. “Your looks are definitely nothing short of exquisite,” he coos, giving a sly grin. “Our mortal skin won’t last for too long. Won’t you let us feel some _pleasure_?”

Akaashi’s response is uncaring, dismissive, casual. “No.”

“You don’t have a _choice!_ ” Howls the demon, seizing Akaashi’s collar. Bokuto catches the way he stiffens, the way his gaze hardens, even as he remains still. “We’ve never defiled an _immortal_ before,” he coos, bringing a hand up to caress the heavenly official’s cheek. “I wonder how you’ll look when—”

His hand is slapped away. Akaashi pushes him back with a hand, then adjusts his collar. Bokuto seethes at the side, stepping protectively in front of him, letting himself tower over them as he looks down at them as he opens his mouth to say “Don’t you _fucking touch_ him” at the same time the dark-robed immortal says, “Don’t touch me” in his _infuriatingly_ calm tone. 

The demon laughs. “What, you can be _solid?_ You’re so weak, but you’re so powerful? What kind of fucking _bullshit_ is _that?_ ” He growls. “They say that Heaven is fair, but we all know those are just empty fucking words.” 

Bokuto doesn’t respond. His hand shakes at his side, but one moment he’s standing tall and proud, and the next, he’s kicked in the stomach, tossed onto the ground. One of the demon’s goons steps over his body, and they surround Akaashi, who stands stock-still in the middle, still leaned against the wall. “Come now, little deity,” the leader coos. “Let us play, won’t you?” He leans forward, places his ear next to Akaashi’s. “You’ll feel _amazing._ ” 

“His skin is so smooth,” one of the demons says in awe. “So pale. He’s gorgeous.” 

_He’s_ mine. 

Another one—the first to speak like a lecher—speaks up. “He’s like the perfect little slut.” 

Akaashi is stone-faced. 

Bokuto is a hurricane. 

He rises, then grabs the one who spoke last, pinning him to the wall, eyes alight with something feral. He doesn’t say anything. He just punches the demon until he’s out cold before tossing him to the ground, his knuckles dripping with his blood. “Get out of here before I pummel all of you into the next century.” 

Their astonished silence is interrupted by the leader’s mocking laughter. “What kind of fucking _weakling_ could lose to _you?_ ”

Akaashi remains silent. Still as a rock, eyes glazed over, one hand on his chest. Here, but not completely. 

“Or maybe you want a piece of him, too, is that it?” The leader’s lip curls lasciviously. “We can share, you know. Sharing is caring, isn’t i—”

_Bang._ He’s against the wall. He’s groaning, but then he’s pulp beneath Bokuto’s fists. He’s ferocious, his eyebrows drawn together. 

His blood is cold on his cheek. 

And it almost blinds him when it almost gets in his eye. 

And then he throws the guy on the floor with a loud _thump._ He turns to the others, who have backed away, golden eyes ablaze with a wild light as he asks, “Who’s next?”

None of them step forward. Akaashi blinks once, twice, coming back to his senses, but not completely. So Bokuto walks closer to the demons who hurry to back away in response. He takes one step forward and watches in some sick satisfaction as they stumble two steps back. “ _Who’s next?_ ”

“Let them go,” a quiet voice says instead. Bokuto turns to Akaashi, his ferocious glare softening. It’s uncharacteristically soft, that voice. That tone. A little shaky, even. But Bokuto doesn’t pry. 

But he asks, “Why?” His voice comes out harsher than he intends, and he closes his mouth quickly. But Akaashi doesn’t react. Instead, he sweeps his gaze over to the two cowering demons before he shakes his head. 

“They’re not worth it.”

Silence. 

And then the two demons are gone, leaving their leader and comrade to lie, out cold, on the ground. Bokuto tries to wipe away the blood on his cheek, but smears it instead, what with the blood on his hands, too. So he just lets his hand fall. 

Akaashi notices. He waves his hand once, and then there’s no more blood on Bokuto at all. He’s good as new. 

And—is that a shadow?

He blinks. 

Then he laughs at himself and thinks, _I’m a ghost, I can’t_ have _a shadow._

“Why didn’t you fight back?” He asks finally, looking over at Akaashi, whose hands are, once again, folded neatly beneath his sleeves. He doesn’t get an answer.

So he tries again. “Why didn’t—”

“Bokuto-san,” he begins calmly. “Have you ever been thrown into a brothel with no control over your own life, nor the clients you have to take?” He turns his cool gaze to Bokuto’s. “Have you ever been forced like that until you can never forget how it feels to be defiled? How it feels to be _filthy?_ ”

_If I am filthy, then rolling in the mud will bear no consequence._

Silence.

Bokuto opens his mouth, but no words come out. 

“Let’s go. We’re done for today.” Akaashi leaves without so much as a glance back, but, as always, Bokuto follows behind him. 

**——————**

Bokuto knows he’s dreaming when he’s not dressed in his usual clothes, when he’s not where he should be, when he can’t control what the _fuck_ he’s doing. 

He’s running. Crashing through an old-fashioned, traditional hallway, bounding past rooms in the dead of the night. Panting, sort of. A little out of breath. He crashes through into someone’s room, and, in an instant, something cold presses against his neck, and he holds up his hands abruptly. “It’s me.”

The slightest pause, and Bokuto gently presses the knife down, only for the blade to touch his neck once more as a voice hisses, _“Prove it.”_

“Akaashi,” he says tiredly. “I literally _ran_ here.”

“Prove it.”

“Oh my gods—okay. Okay, _fine._ You tried to kill me last night and you’re not that far from doing it again. Do you know how much my side hurts right now? Cultivator or not, that still hurts like _hell._ ” 

Slowly, the blade leaves his neck, and Bokuto breathes out a breath as Akaashi closes the door behind him. He takes note of how the lights aren’t on, and, though neither of them have a problem moving around in the dark, Akaashi doesn’t move to light them. 

“What is it?” Akaashi asks, suspicious. Tense. Even though they’ve been at it for so long, their little game of cat and mouse with interchangeable roles never gets old. And after last night, Bokuto has a feeling Akaashi is the mouse tonight. A very dangerous mouse that can cut your throat faster than you can blink. 

So Bokuto doesn’t budge from his spot. “I figured out what you meant last night. About being filthy. About them touching you.” Even now, the thought fills him with rage. His people, doing what they know they shouldn’t. _His people._

Disgusting. 

Akaashi lets out a cold snort. The bedsheet beneath him rustles. “Wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened to me anyway.” 

“But they’re under _me._ They’re _my_ responsibility.”

“Killing you wouldn’t have made them stop anyway,” comes the hiss, bitten through gritted teeth. The coldness of his gaze pins Bokuto to the spot, despite the fact that neither of them can see each other under the cover of the shadows around them. “They would have used it as an excuse to make it _worse._ ”

“Akaashi—”

“I don’t want your pity, Bokuto Koutarou.”

“I could have stopped them. I could kick them out, actually. They deserve it.”

“And then what? Let them spread the word?” The sheets rustle again and Bokuto can vaguely make out the shape of something dark rising, followed by the sound of footsteps rushing towards him. Surprised, Bokuto takes a step back, and Akaashi leans forward instead, grabbing the collar of the male’s robe to pull him down to his level to seethe, “I already get enough slander, Bokuto- _dono._ I’m already _filthy._ If they start spreading rumours, what then?” He lets go harshly, pushing Bokuto away. 

“They’re still _my_ men.” Bokuto retorts. “They wouldn’t dare to utter a word.”

“Who’s to say they haven’t told their friends already?” 

The room lights up in a flash, prompting Bokuto to raise his arms to shield his eyes from the harsh light. He blinks once, twice, thrice, letting himself adjust, before letting his arms down and blanching at the sight before him. 

Akaashi’s curly, dark hair falls over his form in fluid waves, his lashes long, his gunmetal-blue eyes glaring, the bottle green flecks in them making them all the more prominent. He’s dressed in little but his inner robe(as most would wear when going to sleep) and his room is painfully _bare._ Devoid of any sign of life, as though he were a ghost. If Akaashi were to pack up and leave at any moment, anyone who’d come into this room wouldn’t even _know_ he’d lived here. It’s devoid of warmth, of life, of love, of the resolve to _stay_. 

But the point is that his forehead is wrapped in bandages, there’s a bruise beneath his eye, and beneath the sleeves of his robe, Bokuto can see bruises. 

He breathes out a breath, blanching, knowing his pale face tells Akaashi everything he needs to know, sees it in the way the latter’s lips curl upwards condescendingly into the ghost of a bitter smile. “You know,” he begins. “For all the people I’ve killed, I’ve never had the freedom to choose who to take the lives of. And I couldn’t take the lives of your men. I couldn’t fight them back.” The chuckle is bitter, filled to the brim and _leaking_ with hatred. So much so that Bokuto can’t help but flinch. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“No,” Bokuto bites out. “No, it _isn’t._ Akaashi, you—”

“Would be in the right if I fought back?” Akaashi snorts coldly. “Right, because someone who’s already barely trusted _fighting back_ will _definitely_ get me into your good books. If I hadn’t told you, what then? You would have seen me suffer if your men came to you all bruised and saying I did that to them. You wouldn’t have bothered to check on my condition.”

Anger rises in Bokuto. A whisper of it; a warning. “Don’t assume what I would and wouldn’t do, Akaashi Keiji.” 

“I’m right and you _know it,_ ” Akaashi bites back. “You would never have bothered with me. You’ve _never_ bothered with me, and you won’t start now. You’re only here because of your guilty conscience.” 

And then there’s the rumble, the second and last warning, in his tone. “I’m here because I’m _concerned for your welbeing after what happened._ When will you get that through your skull, assassin?”

“Did you know, Bokuto Koutarou,” Akaashi begins, wholly unperturbed as he steps forward with that unnatural grace of his, looking as breathtaking as he always does despite his bruises and the bandage wrapped around his head. Despite the hatred burning in his cold eyes. “What I was forced to do when I was younger, after my parents died, after I turned ten?”

A chill travels down Bokuto’s spine. He opens his mouth to answer, but no words leave his lips as the dark-haired man presses closer still, his mouth slowly curling into a sneer. “They tossed me into a brothel. I had to _work there,_ you know. For everyone. Everything.” Akaashi pulls away. “And then they tossed me into the Academy to train to kill and cultivate after I killed one of my ‘patrons’.” His lips curl in disgust. “An old man I didn’t know.”

Bokuto struggles for breath. He’s horrified, disgusted, shocked. “Why are you telling me this?” 

Akaashi shrugs. “Because I want you to know that being defiled is something I’m used to. I don’t want your pity, Bokuto Koutarou. I want your protection in exchange for my services.” He levels his gaze with the taller male. “I want you to let me _make them suffer._ Because if you do, then I don’t care how much I hate you; your word will be my law, and I will follow it. I will follow _you._ ”

_Because I want to repay them for what they did to me tenfold._

_Because I want to see them scream for mercy before they die._

_At my hands._

_With their blood on my blades._

_I want them_ dead.

And, terrified as Bokuto is, he can’t help but think…

He can’t help but think that Akaashi Keiji is just another sad, lonely victim of the wars that have torn these two kingdoms apart.

**——————**

Bokuto wakes, gasping for air, eyes wide, sweat trickling down the nape of his neck, his back, even though it shouldn’t be, when he’s dead. He doesn’t even notice the dent in the bed, the creak it makes when he flies out of it, like he’s solid, like he’s _there._ Not when he can swiftly pass through the walls, when his shadow disappears, and he’s incorporeal once more.

“Hinata!” He calls, and the deity is already before him, surprised by the spirit’s dishevelled, almost wild look. He places his hands on the orange-haired man’s shoulders, asking, “Where’s Akaashi?”

“Right here,” responds the cool voice. Bokuto’s mind is thrown for a loop as the two figures overlap; one in black, in this building, right in front of him, and the other, dressed in only his inner robe, his long hair cascading over his shoulders, down his back, wrapped with bandages and bruised. “What is it?”

“I’m so sorry.” Bokuto chokes out. “ _I’m so sorry for what they did to you._ ”

He tilts his head to the side, confused. “Bokuto-san, you beat them to a pulp.” 

“Not them. The…” 

He pauses.

_Who?_

“... Bokuto-san?” Hinata prompts. 

Bokuto shakes his head, letting go of Hinata, his eyes flitting about as he backs away. _Who? Who, who,_ who?

“I can’t remember,” he mumbles anxiously. He looks up, glancing between the two. “Why can’t I remember? _Why?_ ”

Hinata’s eyes flicker. “... Bokuto-san?” His voice is soft, tentative. “Remember what?”

“I can’t fucking—I can’t _remember._ I can’t fucking _remember!_ ”

“Bokuto-san, calm down,” Akaashi says, frowning, taking a step forward. Again, illusion and reality overlap, and Bokuto clutches his head in pain. Why is it so painful? It’s just a dream. Why does his heart hurt? Why does his head hurt? Why does his chest, his side, why does _everything hurt?_ “Take a deep breath.” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, because he feels like he should—no, he _has to_ —say it. “I’m sorry, Akaashi.”

_I’m sorry for not being there when I should have been._

Akaashi frowns. “Bokuto-san—”

“Hinata-sama!” Kitsu runs into the room, panting for air. It’s three in the morning. Almost four. “There’s… there’s been another attack.”

The orange-haired deity straightens. “What? So soon?” _Too soon._

“Hinata-sama!” “Hinat—” “Hinata-sama, there’s—” Three more demons file into the room, out of breath, panting, eyes wide as they open their mouths to speak together in unison. 

_“There’s been another attack!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THIS IS THE LONGEST CHAPTER I'VE GOT OUT THUS FAR. Do tell me what you guys think in the comments! I'm finally starting to add in more backstory LMAOOO RIP I still haven't really gotten the hang of all their personalities yet (pepehands) So please bear with me until I do some proper research into Bokuaka's personalities and if I have time, then everyone else.


	6. Cold Hands, Warm Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Gore, blood, stabby stab.  
> An attempt was made.

* * *

_“You have taken lives, Akaashi Keiji. How are you any different from us, assassin? Have you not killed? Have you not stolen that which is not yours? You live a fool’s life, Dragon Lord. A fool’s life.”_

* * *

It’s _burning._

He’s on _fire._

It _stings._ It’s _painful._

But Bokuto Koutarou doesn’t know if the pain is from his head or his heart. 

The sounds of the world around him dim into nothing but white noise. At the back of his head, vague thoughts like _that’s a lot of attacks at once_ and _yikes_ are drowned out by the rising symphony of absolute _pain_ flooding his head. If not for him being a spirit, Bokuto has a feeling that his nose would be bleeding by now. He clutches his head, blinking his eyes in a futile attempt to clear his mind. The pain is so overwhelming that he can’t hear anything but his laboured, haggard breathing as he curls in on himself. Because all he can think right now is _it’s painful it’s painful it’s painful_ and _I’msorryI’msorryI’m_ sorry—

His form flickers ever-so-slightly. Like he’s going to disappear, or… something. No one notices. Bokuto can vaguely make out a new voice; Kageyama, perhaps. Probably him. Hinata and him are barking orders, so in tune with each other that they move and speak together; they don’t even need to look at each other before they’re simultaneously changing their attire into one that’s more battle-ready. Kageyama palms the sheathed sword at his hip, and Hinata, the twin blades crossed on his back. Their expressions are grave as they continue to shout orders. 

“—san. Bokuto-san.” A gentle, strong voice pierces through the cacophony of thoughts and sensations in his brain. Bokuto clings onto it like it’s his last hope at life, like it’s his gods-damned anchor, hoping it will drag him from the dark well of pain and onto the shore where the waves are gentler and he can be unaffected by the sea’s storms. “ _Bokuto-san!_ ” 

He gasps. Rises so quickly he almost bumps his head against the person leaning over him in concern, delicate eyebrows creased together. He’s heaving for breath, hand clutched to his chest, eyes blown wide as he looks here and there. _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._

Akaashi is frowning. “... Bokuto-san? Are you alright?”

He opens his mouth once, then closes it, one foot in the real world and another still trapped in the storm of his mind. He clears his throat and shakes his head in an attempt to gather his bearings, forcefully taking slow breaths. “... Uh. Yeah. I think so.” 

The dark-haired immortal raises an eyebrow, unconvinced as he tilts his head to the side. He looks as though he’s about to question the spirit further, but when he opens his mouth, he’s interrupted by Hinata, who asks, “Akaashi-san, are you coming with?”

He closes his mouth, pursing his lips as the corners of them curl downwards ever-so-slightly. Then he turns to face Hinata, already shifting from casual clothing to silken, dark robes with billowing sleeves as he says, “Yes. Where are we going?”

“How about Bokuto-san?” Kageyama asks, turning to look at the spirit, who looks paler than a spirit should, somehow. “Will he join us?” The rest of his words remain unspoken, though they hang in the air. _He’s been tagging along with us this whole time, anyway._

So he nods before anyone can answer for him, shaking away the remnants of his distorted symphony of pain and apologies as best as he can as he gives a faint smile. “D’you really think I’d chicken out because of this?” He doesn’t mention how he’s still going in and out of that little space of his mind. Doesn’t mention how his head still stings, how his heart still burns. Doesn’t mention any of it. Somehow, it doesn’t show on his face, either. 

“Where are we going?” Akaashi asks, stepping forward, hands already reaching into his sleeves to pull out the cross-crescent-shaped blades. Bokuto finds his hand going to his hip, only to settle on air, and even as he bashfully puts it away, his body remains tense and alert. He doesn’t bother to wonder why when he’s a little too out of it to question it. Even the way he and Akaashi are moving right now, in this time of chaos, with one asking the questions and the other silently waiting for orders(though for some reason, it doesn’t feel quite right in this way) is familiar. 

Hinata gestures for a demon; his horns are curled high above his head, his pupils horizontal. A goat. “This street has three ghouls on-site.”

“That’s a rich district,” Akaashi says, frowning. “Are they targeting a family?”

Bokuto’s blood runs cold at the thought of innocent children losing their lives so quickly to these dreadful things. Gone, before a full life could be lived and enjoyed. Sucked so dry and thoroughly that not even they could enter the Wheel of Reincarnation. It’s a fate worse than death; they’d be completely wiped out of existence. No one to see them again in their next life. A barely lit candle flame snuffed out before it can even start to truly burn. Who will remember them when they’ve passed for good?

_Me._ I’ll _remember them._

“A family of five,” the goat demon confirms. But Akaashi is already turning, Bokuto behind him, winding his way through the streets of Miyagi, unseen by its people. At most a small breeze, perhaps. A strong wind at most. They’re weaving through the slowly waking city; Bokuto has no idea where they’re going, but it’s clear that Akaashi does, what with the way he dashes through allies with a striking familiarity. 

And he’s thinking, _please let us make it in time please let us make it in time please let them be alive_ because, gods, it’s a family of _five_ , of two parents and three children who’re probably rife with life and energy and _potential_ and they don’t deserve to get their lives cut short so quickly—

But he can’t stop thinking. Of that dream. Of Akaashi, wrapped in bandages, bruises on his arms, that feral, hateful look in his eyes directed at _him._ Directed at what he stood for. Of Akaashi, stabbing his knife into Bokuto’s side with that broken look in his eyes. His lonely, injured figure, standing in the dark, swearing loyalty at the cost of a life for a life. Or his own for the death of an entire kingdom. 

He shakes his head. They turn a corner and run further upwards. Bokuto can hardly catch up, but it’s getting easier. Somewhat. He doesn’t know how, but he’s gone from trailing _behind_ the immortal to running beside him. Akaashi doesn’t bother to look his way; instead, he charges forward, jumps over a wall(leaving Bokuto to bite his dust for a few moments before he realises he can just _walk through it_ because, come on, he’s a _ghost_ ), before charging forward. 

Except when Bokuto finally catches up to him, Akaashi’s mouth is curled into the ghost of an amused smile as he waits for the spirit. It makes him blank out for a moment. He just stops to stare at that look, akin to a grin, really, and then finds himself returning the smile. 

And then their expressions sour when the sound of something thumping onto a carpeted floor fills the air. Their gazes break, dissolving whatever atmosphere had settled over them, and they look to the house. 

Again, he finds himself praying. 

_Please be okay._

_Please be alive._

_Please._

But even he knows chances are slim if there’s already _something_ in there.

And then it hits him. The metallic scent of blood. He cringes, flinches back; Akaashi’s expression merely hardens. Crystallises. His eyes grow cold and he tightens his grip ever-so-slightly on his blades before wordlessly charging into the house through the wrecked window, not bothering to avoid the shards of glass. How had he not noticed that shattered window? Perhaps he’d been too preoccupied with his staring. 

His stomach drops when he enters the room. The smell of blood practically _invades_ his senses, and he flinches back, the smell sickening him to the bone. It’s so strong here, even Akaashi wrinkles his nose ever-so-slightly as he surveys the carnage that Bokuto still hasn’t mustered the courage to properly see. 

Akaashi sucks in an inaudible breath. Bokuto only makes it out by the slight stiffening of his otherwise still body, and when the spirit whips his head around to _finally_ look, his stomach drops all the way to the floor and his hairs raise as he takes a step back. 

It’s _terrible._

They’re in _piles._ Blood, on the walls. Blood, on the couch. Limbs, haphazardly splayed across the floor. Blood, blood, _blood,_ and not even an _intact body._ A head of long hair, torn from the torso, from the looks of it, lies to the side, the teenage girl’s mouth open and eyes wide in a silent, dreadful scream as her soul is sucked out of her body. 

Bokuto turns around. 

And he pukes. 

He pukes and pukes and _pukes_ until he sees stars as he tries to cast the images of insides and blood and limbs and bits and pieces of chewed flesh and bones from his mind. Pukes as he grieves for the lives lost and never to be seen again. Pukes as he tries to rein in the anger and disgust at these creatures for doing this. 

Akaashi lets him puke. He doesn’t say a thing as he surveys the carnage, but he puts his hands together and lowers his head, uttering a prayer beneath his breath, even if these souls will never rest when they’re already gone. Forever and completely, never to return. Cast from the Wheel not by Heavenly Decree, but by the cruelty of demons. Devoured. Completely. 

Bokuto rises after a few more minutes of heaving. His head is ringing; he feels like it might be vibrating, too, but that’s probably just him. He can’t speak; his throat is raw. 

Reluctantly, stiffly, Akaashi kneels down in the blood, dipping a finger in it and looking for any sign of another person. He blows out a breath, saying, “There’s a family of five, but there’s only this girl and her parents.” 

And then Bokuto feels it. That dangerous, small spark of hope that he so desperately wants to snuff out but can’t. Because there’s a chance that the other two are alive, alive, _alive,_ and they might have a shot at life. Akaashi’s voice cuts through his train of thoughts as he rises, frowning. “They’ve been dead for around ten minutes. But where are the other ghouls?”

Something slides against the floor, then thumps. Simultaneously, they turn their heads to the source of the sound. 

Upstairs.

The two move in tandem; somehow, Bokuto ends up in front as he rushes up the stairs, towards that sound source. His head throbs with his rapid, abrupt movements, but he stomachs it, shoves it aside, as he rushes up, up, up, thinking, _please be alive please be alive please._

But there’s nothing when they reach the top. Nothing but the metallic, dreadful _reek_ of blood. The lights overhead illuminate the gruesome scene before him; a door busted open, barely hanging on its hinges, and blood splattered against the wall, pooled before the door. Clumps of hair on the ground, a wall bashed in, like they didn’t go down without a fight. 

Judging from the severed, half-chewed arm lying in the pool of blood, it clearly didn’t end well. 

Bokuto’s heart drops. His head is positively _killing him_ right now, and he already feels like puking again. 

_They didn’t make it, did they?_

Akaashi takes over, walking forward to survey the damage. He cringes as he kneels down, gingerly stepping over the arm, lifting his robes so they won’t soak in the blood before peering into the room. Hoarsely, Bokuto asks, “... any survivors?” Even though he already knows the answer. 

Akaashi shakes his head in disgust. “You don’t want to see this.”

“Why?” Bokuto asks, then realises his question is misleading. So he continues. “Why were they torn apart? Didn’t the other one only get her…” He hesitates here; the image is clear as day in his mind’s eye, and he has to tear himself from his thoughts before he spirals too far into them. “She only had her soul sucked out. This family—they’ve been _ripped apart._ ”

Akaashi once again gingerly walks back to the spirit. The former athlete looks so pale he’s almost _green._ Which makes sense, given that he’s surrounded by blood and severed limbs. The fact that he hasn’t passed out yet is already a testament to his strength. “Not every ghoul is the same. Some just eat souls. Some eat flesh. Some need both.” Akaashi’s eyes, cold but sad and pitying, turn to survey the carnage left in the ghouls’ wake. “This was the last type.”

A bitter, sour taste permeates Bokuto’s mouth and he shakes his head, breathing a shaky breath, struggling to gather his bearings and wits about him. His head _hurts._ And his world is sort of spinning. _Sort of._

“I’m going to keep looking,” Akaashi offers cautiously. “Will you come with, or do you need some time to yourself?” The immortal won’t hold it against him, he knows. After all, this is the first time he’s seen something so… _terrible_ in his life. Heck, he’s never even seen this much _blood_ in one place before. It’s fucking horrible. 

And, again, his head _hurts._

“I’ll—” his voice cracks and he clears his throat “—I’ll stay here for a bit.” Because Bokuto Koutarou knows his limits and they’ve already been pushed to the extreme.

Hesitantly, Akaashi takes a step back, his body already half-turned. “Are you sure?”

A soft laugh. “Akaashi, I’ll be fine.”

He frowns. “Stay here, Bokuto-san. Don’t go wandering around.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, sir.” 

Akaashi stiffens almost imperceptibly. Then he leaves without another word. 

Bokuto waits until he’s out of eyesight and earshot before he kneels onto the ground and buries his face in his hand, heaving for breath. This headache is _killing him_ , and the smell of fucking _blood_ isn’t _helping._ It’s making shit worse. He keeps _seeing things_ he doesn’t want to see. Blood, on a blade, a severed head at his feet. Screams, around him, calling for him, cursing him. Everything rushes in and goes out at once out of his system, and he feels like he’s going to go _insane._

_Okay, Kou. Deep breaths here,_ he tells himself. A poor attempt to regain control over his body and thoughts. 

In. 

Out. 

In. 

Out. 

In—

Something thumps behind him. 

Bokuto doesn’t stand up in time before he’s toppled to the ground. Something snarls above him. He only has time to register bared, filthy teeth, before he’s kicking it off. Like he’s kicking off a blanket tangled between his legs. _Off, off, off._

It _smells._ It’s not just _blood_ in his nose but the smell of _rot._ His nose wrinkles and he shrinks back, eyeing the disgusting thing on the other side of the room. 

It’s too thin, too pale, too oily. Its hair hangs in oily strands before milk-coloured eyes, void of pupils or irises, and its teeth are bared. It’s snarling, actually. Prowling across the floor, eyeing Bokuto. Even from where he kneels, Bokuto can smell its reek.

There’s blood on its face, on its claws. It’s dressed in nothing. And it’s _hungry._

_It’s going to eat me._

One moment, it’s there.

The next, it’s on him again. Bokuto falls to the floor, in the pool of blood. It’s on his arms, the smell ever-present in his nose, and—

The ghoul opens its mouth. Bites down. 

It’s not painful. It’s _cold._

Involuntarily, he shivers. The ghoul on him heaves, sucking, and immediately, Bokuto’s form flickers. In and out of existence, like a candle. 

He struggles. Tries to push it off. But his fingers are starting to pass through, and—

A loud _screech_ tears at his ears, and the creature is violently thrown off. Akaashi flicks his wrist once and a chain appears in his hands, long and, like his fire, the blue light is interrupted by gold. The creature opens its mouth to scream. Akaashi flicks his wrist again, and the whip is wrapped around its neck. His expression is ferocious. 

There’s a sickening _crack._

And then it just falls. 

Onto the floor, like a bag of rice, with a thump. Literally sucking the life out of Bokuto one second, then lifeless itself the next. 

Akaashi turns around, pale, before he rushes over, kneeling down. “Bokuto-san, can you hear me?” His delicate eyebrows are creased with worry, and, hesitantly, he reaches out to the spirit, but even _his_ hands pass right through. 

“... yeah,” comes the weak reply. Bokuto blinks, sits up, careful to not to press down on anything too hard for fear of it passing through. “I can hear you.” 

Akaashi breathes out a breath of relief. “Can you stand?”

“Uh… probably?” Bokuto rises unsteadily on his feet. The dark-robed immortal with robes stained with blood and skin as pale as porcelain rises with him, elegant features creased ever-so-slightly with worry. “Yeah. Yeah, I can stand. I’m standing, see? All good. Did you kill the other two already?”

“Yes. You’re flickering,” Akaashi replies. “That’s not a good sign.”

“Looks like I can’t fight all my battles, huh?” He offers, laughing. “I could beat those perverts to a pulp, but not this low-level ghoul.” 

Akaashi frowns. “Is it just me, or are you…” He pauses. “You’re fading back.”

“What?”

“Into form. That—”

“Akaashi-sama!” 

The two turn their heads abruptly to the source of sound. It’s the same fox spirit they travelled with the day before. He rushes into the hall, looking sick(no doubt from the gore downstairs and the one before him now), before saying, his words coming out in a rush, “Hinata-sama and Kageyama-sama want you back at our place. _Now._ ”

**——————**

“Akaashi-san,” Hinata and Kageyama address simultaneously. The orange-haired immortal looks no better than the Akaashi himself, his complexion flushed, his robes filthy. “You… you’re gonna want to see this.”

They’re standing before a door, underground. Bokuto hadn’t known that the apartment had floors beneath the surface, but the moment they’d arrived, the two had dragged them to a lift, punched a few buttons, and then they’d shot down, down, _down._

Akaashi tilts his head to the side, as though he’s saying, _go on, then._ A moment after, the two of them open the door, and, again, the reek of blood and rot assaults the spirit’s nose. He’s still flickering every now and then, but it’s been ten minutes, and he’s starting to regain his proper form again. Bokuto wrinkles his nose and steps in with the others, only to pause in his steps. “This… this is a ghoul?”

“That’s what he’s _supposed_ to be,” Kageyama replies stiffly, eyeing the man before them. 

His skin is the same shade of pale grey as all ghouls possess, but he’s clothed, though the fabric is torn beyond recognition. He sits on the floor, greasy strands of hair hanging before his beaten-up face, hands between his knees with his legs spread out before him. He looks up when they enter, and a harsh, grating laugh fills the room as the door slams shut. 

“How very _kind_ of you,” he begins, his voice raspy with unuse, but his words clear and pronounced. “To grace me, this lowly subject, with your _immortal_ presence.” He might as well be hissing, at this point. His pupil-less, iris-less eyes gleam with hatred and condescending amusement. 

Akaashi stiffens. “You talk.”

Another bitter laugh. “Oh, yes, I do. We of the older generation have long since learned the ways of _humans,_ ” the ghoul replies, spitting out the last word like venom. “Dare I say, Akaashi Keiji, that I have lived long before even _you_ came into this world.”

“How?” Hinata interrupts harshly. “You’re the first old ghoul we’ve met that can speak. Or even _think_.”

“Foolish,” he hisses back. “You younger ones are dimmer than a dying candle’s firelight. Just because you’ve met none does not mean we are nonexistent.”

“Who gave you the ability to speak?” Akaashi asks harshly. “You ghouls are of low intelligence by birth. Someone taught you ways.”

Now the laugh is cruel, reedy, rough. It ends with a snarl. “Did you know, Dragon Lord, that if we of _low intelligence by birth_ eat enough humans, devour enough souls, we gain power? Intelligence? There’s a fascinating saying they’ve made, these little mortals: _you are what you eat._ I have lived as a human for many, many years. Heaven is foolish, corrupted, a sham. And you would know that best, _My Lord._ ”

“I am _not,_ ” the dark-robed immortal grits out. “—a dragon lord. Let alone a _lord,_ demon. It would do you well to remember this.”

“No?” The ghoul barks out a laugh. “But those of the underworld call you such. _Akaashi-sama._ What will the Heavens do when they discover you dare to shelter us of the Lowest Realms?”

“I do not shelter the likes of _you,_ ” comes the sharp retort. “I shelter those that are in need of help. I treat them with the respect and kindness they should have, unless they’ve lost it.”

“Pity. No respect or kindness for little old me?”

Akaashi’s glare is as cold as ice. Colder, even. And sharper than even the sharpest blade. “There is no respect to be had for the likes of you after what you have done to achieve this state of awareness.”

“After what _I_ have done!” The ghoul’s voice goes shrill. Bokuto realises that he’s chained to the ground, bleeding from the sides, his neck, his wrists. Is that a dent in his cheek? “ _After what I have done!_ Akaashi Keiji, of all the heavenly officials, I would have thought you understood us most.”

Akaashi stiffens. Hinata and Kageyama step forward, gazes one of warning. “You have no right to discuss the matters of an immortal,” Kageyama barks out harshly. 

The ghoul pays them no mind. “You have taken _lives,_ Akaashi Keiji. How are you any different from us, assassin? Have you not killed? Have you not _stolen_ that which is not yours?” A scornful chuckle. “You live a fool’s life, Dragon Lord. A fool’s life.”

The chain whip reappears in Akaashi’s hand, its light warm. Bokuto finds himself drawn to it this time. His headache has finally calmed, and, from the looks of it, he’s not flickering anymore. The ghoul shrinks back, scowling and snarling at the weapon’s light. “Call me Dragon Lord again, ghoul, and I will not spare you any mercy.”

“You are a _thief_ , Dragon Lord. You have only known to take that which is priceless, but not give it back. Shame on the Heavens for allowing your ascension. _Shame—_ ”

The demon screeches. Bokuto realises that two blades have already plunged into it, snuffing the ghoul of life, only after Kageyama and Hinata pull it out, expressions tense and disdainful. Akaashi remains impossibly still and quiet at his side, but he swears the temperature in the room has dropped several degrees. 

“Let’s go get washed up before we start talking,” is all Hinata says before he and Kageyama are gone.

**——————**

His face is burning.

_I didn’t see that I didn’t see tha—_

_I so saw that._

A pale back. Strong, broad shoulders. An impossible fucking waist. Long black hair falling over it all.

Okay, so Bokuto saw Akaashi undress before he went to shower. 

Maybe he’s a little turned on. 

It’s so _distracting_ that he doesn’t even bother to question how he can use the shower when he technically shouldn’t be solid to begin with. So distracting that he doesn’t realise he’s finally wearing a new set of clothes(given by one of the fox spirits, no doubt) after being dead for months. So distracting that he doesn’t even wonder how one of them got those clothes in when he _clearly_ locked the door. 

And he bumps into Akaashi when he steps out. “Oops.”

The male before him raises an eyebrow. “Bokuto-san, why are you red?”

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit—_

Kitsu appears in the hallway. “Akaashi-sama, Bokuto-san, are you both finished cleaning? Hinata-sama and Kageyama-sama are waiting for you on the topmost floor in their suite.”

When Akaashi’s gaze sweeps over from Bokuto to the fox spirit, the latter breathes out a sigh of relief. Internally praising Kitsu’s timely appearance, the spirit tosses him a broad smile(which the demon returns, albeit a little confusedly), before turning to the dark-haired immortal next to him, who he realises hasn’t bothered to tie up his hair. His billowing robes hang loosely over his figure, but they’re not as layered as before. He supposes it’s because he might be sleeping soon. The subject of Bokuto’s gaze opens his mouth to speak. “You may take us there now.”

Kitsu nods, then turns, his tail swishing gently behind him. Bokuto holds in the urge to reach out and touch the bushy tail, knowing that doing so definitely wouldn’t end well. Even so, he can’t help but say, “Your tail looks really fluffy, Kitsu-san!” 

The kitsune stops in his steps abruptly, surprised, cheeks reddening bashfully before he turns around. His honey-coloured eyes are fixed onto the floor as he says, “Ah… Thank you, Bokuto-san.”

And then, unable to resist, Bokuto asks, “Can I touch it?”

There’s silence. Shocked, palpable silence. Akaashi breaks it, his words sceptic as he goes, “You _do_ know that that’s usually considered as rude, Bokuto-san?”

Well. He figures it is, but that tail—it’s really fluffy. 

So he doesn’t notice the odd souring of the look in the dark-robed immortal’s eyes as Kitsu says, “Well… I suppose.”

And, good gods, it’s _super_ fluffy. And soft. Bokuto’s grin broadens, his eyes alight with a childish fascination as he runs his hands through the bushy fur of the tail. “Whoa,” he breathes, then looks over at Akaashi. “Akaashi, you should try petting the tail, too! It’s super—”

“I’m quite alright,” the immortal cuts in apathetically, taking the lead. “We have places to be.”

Kitsu, whose face is now akin to that of a tomato’s, awkwardly and bashfully extracts his tail from Bokuto. “Bokuto-san, Akaashi-sama is right. If you so wish, I can ask the rest of the fox spirits to prepare a fox-fur coat for your journeys. Akaashi-sama, is yours still in appropriate condition?”

Akaashi pauses in his steps to allow Kitsu to catch up and lead the way. Only then does he answer, “Yes. Rarely do I use it; the cold doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.”

Kitsu’s eyes dim. “I suppose that is a good thing.”

The ghost of a self-deprecating smile tugs at the corners of Akaashi’s lips. “I suppose so.” 

Naturally, this conversation completely flies over Bokuto’s head as they make their ways into the lift. Kitsu remains silent at their side, his fox ears moving with the sounds around him. The lift is silent, but not uncomfortably so. When the doors open almost soundlessly, Kitsu steps aside, offering a small bow. “This is where I take my leave, Bokuto-san, Akaashi-sama.”

Both immortal and spirit nod their thanks to Kitsu before stepping through. Rather than stepping into a hall where numbered doors are lined up, they’ve stepped directly into a sprawling suite. The walls to the east and west are comprised entirely of windows; the curtains on the left have been parted completely to reveal the first hints of sunset. It occurs to Bokuto that they’re only in what seems to be the living room, and, before he can ask, Akaashi is already leading the way. The entire place is _huge_ , and it’s almost confusing. Has Hinata always been this rich? Or is this an illusion? Or perhaps it’s an accumulation of all the wealth he’s amassed over the years as an immortal. 

_Or,_ Bokuto interrupts himself. _It’s just pure godly power._

At this point, it’s not something he’d rule out. 

When they finally find the two immortals, they’re next to each other on a couch. The television is off, and their heads are bowed towards each other, their voices soft. Hinata straightens, then smacks Kageyama, who returns the gesture, ever the bickering duo. But something about the scene is impossibly personal, impossibly intimate, and when the both of them pause their pointless arguing to laugh, Hinata presses a kiss to Kageyama’s lips, and Bokuto’s heart begins to ache. He forces himself to look away, but Akaashi, used to it, steps forward, saying, “Hinata. Kageyama.”

The two jump apart in surprise. Hinata is outright blushing. Kageyama’s face looks more constipated, and his ears are red. To their credit, they don’t stutter as they mumble out their greetings, albeit bashfully so. 

“Aw, man!” Bokuto offers, grinning. “If you guys were gonna keep kissin’, you could’ve just told us to leave first and come back when you’re done! I feel like I’m gonna get diabetes or something.”

Hinata reddens so much the spirit and immortal fear he might explode. “Uh—um. Uh! S—sorry…?”

“Dumbass,” comes Kageyama’s retort. “If you’re gonna apologise, do it properly. Why are you making it sound like some fucking question?”

Hinata puffs up in response. “At least _I’m_ apologising! What about you? Shitty-yama.”

Kageyama glares. “What did you call me?”

Akaashi clears his throat before the two can continue their bickering, and the two lively youngsters quiet down immediately in response, still looking painfully bashful. “Please sit, Akaashi-sama, Bokuto-san,” Hinata finally offers, gesturing to the other couches. “We have a lot to talk about.” And his professionalism _would_ be impressive if not for the still-present blush on his cheeks. And Kageyama’s. It’s disgustingly cute. 

So Bokuto and Akaashi take a seat next to each other, facing the other two on the couch opposite to them as they lean over the coffee table set between them. Hinata speaks first, clearing his throat in another attempt to gather his bearings. “So,” he starts, then throws a look at Kageyama to shut him up before the latter has even opened his mouth. “There were about four attacks tonight.”

“Five,” Kageyama corrects. “I took down two.”

Hinata sours, a competitive look flashing in his eyes. Bokuto can’t help but think, _even as a couple, they’re still competing against each other,_ in amusement. “Five. That’s more than twice the usual amount of max attacks. And more times than usual this week than last month.” Hinata shakes his head. “Something’s not right.” 

“Have the Heavens been alerted of the situation yet?” Akaashi asks, clasping his hands together and leaning back against the couch ever-so-slightly. In the gentle light from above, the dark-robed immortal looks almost like an angel himself. “Seeing as they thought this was a small matter in the beginning.”

Hinata nods his head. “I sent a crow out about an hour ago.”

“Will they be offering assistance?”

Kageyama shakes his head. “Hard to say. But maybe if Iwaizumi-san is there, he’ll come down to help.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Alright.”

“The demons looked like they were following someone,” Bokuto finally says, unable to keep silent. “You said it yourself that they appeared to be following orders. And Old Ghoul-kun sort of confirmed it. But why?”

Kageyama and Hinata tense in unison. The both of them exchange gazes for a brief moment, looking like they’re having a conversation(read: argument/battle of wills) with their eyes. Finally, Kageyama looks away, pissed. “... We did a little more digging. After we came back. Apparently, it’s got to do with their privileges or rights or… whatever.”

Akaashi tenses. “What?”

“It’s like a repeat,” Kageyama begins tightly. “The demons. They’re—”

Akaashi holds up a hand. “Don’t. Do you _know_ what you’re talking about, Kageyama? That war happened far before you were even in Heaven.”

“What war?” Bokuto blurts, unable to fight back his curiosity. Immediately, three pairs of immortal eyes turn to him, and he offers a sheepish, bashful sort of broad smile. Thankfully, they don’t leave him hanging for too long.

“Um… how do I say this?” Hinata starts, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “I’m not sure if this is right, but this happened during Akaashi-san’s time.” At this, he casts a glance at the cold, silent immortal seated next to the spirit. “Apparently, some demons rebelled against Heaven. They wanted to reform the system for their… rights? Or something. And, well. It was a disaster. A lot of people died.”

Bokuto blinks. “Well, that’s rough, buddy.”

Kageyama blows out a breath. “Real rough.” 

“It’s strange that they only sent _Akaashi_ down to investigate this, though,” Hinata says, tilting his head to the side with the slightest hint of a frown. “Normally they’d send a few more just in case, since they probably know by now that it’s been happening for a while.”

“The Heavens don’t like me,” comes Akaashi’s cool reply. “The Underworld favours me more than they do.”

Something about that puts a knife through Bokuto’s heart. Again, he thinks of the beaten assassin, in that poorly-lit room devoid of life. Of that stupid vow to serve so long as he got his vengeance. And then now, of this immortal, who seems to do so much for the place where he should belong, only to be treated as an outcast. “Why?” He asks.

The gunmetal-blue-eyed immortal touches a hand to his chest, where the spirit knows the jade pendant is, tucked securely and carefully into his clothes. “I don’t know.”

And, maybe it’s his imagination, but Kageyama and Hinata’s gazes are a mirror of the sadness Bokuto feels in his heart. But they’re gone by the next moment, and Akaashi doesn’t seem to notice. It’s either that, or he’s so used to it that he’s stopped caring. 

“Just get some rest for now,” Kageyama says, finally. “We can settle this after we’re well-rested. Hopefully, there’ll be help by then.”

_Heavens know we need it._

**——————**

_“Go back.”_

_Oh, come on, again?_ Bokuto thinks. Again, he sees those gorgeous eyes, that smooth pendant. The wound at his side is already numb, and there’s blood pooling beneath him. The smell of blood is more vivid than he remembers, but he supposes that’s probably because he _knows_ now how bad this amount of blood should smell. Pale fingers seize his robe, and Akaashi’s expression is one of torment. 

_“Damn it,_ Kou _—_ ** _turn back!_** ”

Those bright green flecks in his gunmetal-blue eyes stand out like stars against the night sky. Bokuto breathes out a breath, thinking, _you’re as beautiful as ever, little jewel of mine._

Again, that peaceful feeling settles in his heart as he reaches a hand out to stroke the pendant, cool against his skin. Akaashi reaches for the string, hurrying to remove it. “Take it. Take it back. Take it back and _go_ , Kou. _Go back._ ”

_Before it’s too late, go._

“What did I tell you? It’s yours, Keiji. I gave it to you. Keep it.”

And then those frantic movements, those pleas, the look of absolute and unadulterated _love_ in his eyes as Akaashi Keiji, his little jewel, panics above him. 

And then, from the corners of Bokuto’s dimming line of sight, a shadow dashes by. 

_Wh—_

“ _Koutarou!_ ”

Akaashi is pulled away from him. Violently yanked away and tossed aside. Bokuto’s eyes widen and he hurries to rise, only to wince and cough out blood as he collapses back onto the ground. Akaashi reaches for him, calls his name. But the closer they try to get, the further they are. The further it _feels._ The shadows wrap around his little jewel, constricting him, restricting him of movement. He pulls against the dark tendrils, his expression almost feral and so desperate it’s _painful,_ that it’s a sharp _stab_ to Bokuto’s heart, and he’s screaming for him. 

“Keiji!” Bokuto scrambles, fighting his pain, the dark that threatens to take over his mind to put him to eternal rest. He fights against all of it as he crawls towards Akaashi, who’s gradually being pulled back. Again and again, they’re calling for each other, fighting a desperate battle that neither can win. 

But love is a funny, fickle thing.

It doesn’t stop him. 

“Go back, Kou,” Akaashi cries weakly. “ _Go back._ ” _Before it’s too late, go back._

And then the shadows coil around his neck, and they _squeeze._ They squeeze and Akaashi’s veins stand out against his skin and he’s choking and struggling to breathe and Bokuto is _crying_ because his little jewel is _right there_ and he can’t do anything to help him or save him. 

And then Akaashi is consumed by the dark. 

Bokuto’s vision blackens. 

When his eyes open again, he’s in that room. Akaashi’s wrapped in bandages, his arms bruised. The pendant around his neck is tossed aside onto the floor, and he’s reaching for it, sobbing, he’s saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ ” over and over like a mantra as he cradles it close to his chest, his hands wiping away the blood on its cold, smooth surface. Bokuto opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t. 

“I want to go back,” Akaashi murmurs beneath his breath, so wracked and tired with sobs that his voice comes out hoarse and impossibly soft. The sorrow in it is an endless well that squeezes at Bokuto’s heart. “I want to go _back!_ ”

And then there’s that pain in his side again, and he’s being stabbed, over and over and over, by Akaashi’s blade. “I hate you, Bokuto Koutarou. I _hate you._ ”

And it’s painful, gods, it’s so _fucking painful_ , but he can’t bring himself to tell him to stop. So he’s just being stabbed, over and over and fucking _over,_ on the ground, with the assassin hovering over him with a ferocious expression.

And it’s sad.

It’s sad how this world can take the humanity out of someone and burn it all away. Until there are no ashes. Until the only remains are the hollow shell of someone who once knew warmth. 

The tears on his cheek are warm.

But the hands on his neck are so, so _cold._

Bokuto once heard a saying.

_The people with the coldest hands—_

And then Akaashi is sobbing again. Sobbing and pushing him away and throwing away that bloody blade as he buries his hands in his soiled hands. 

_The people with the coldest hands have the warmest heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not @ the way this is another fucking monster of a chapter bc im an idiot and on a roll. Please tell me what you think!!!!!!! In the comments!!!!! Thank you very much!!!! I am desperate for comments!! Will watch new HQ episode now goodbye.


	7. Stargazing

* * *

_For the second time, Bokuto watches as Akaashi pulls out the smooth, jade pendant, his pale fingers gently, almost tenderly, tracing its every detail, every intricate pattern carved onto it, with soft eyes. “But I know this is important.”_

* * *

He wakes with a gasp. It’s loud and broken and hoarse, and there’s sweat pouring down his neck, his brow, his back. He’s trying to _breathe_ and gather his wits about him; Bokuto’s vision clears gradually as he drags himself back to reality. Away from the surging storms of his mind, from the crashing sea that nearly drowns him. He takes a deep breath, then another as he waits for himself to settle. To calm down and gather his bearings. 

His head hurts again, but no more than a dull ache; it’s a stark contrast to the agonising migraine he’d had the day before, which is, of course, a welcome change(though he isn’t sure if he should be concerned or not. He brings a shaky hand to his face, rubbing his palm over it tiredly, before it falls back onto the bed. He doesn’t notice the soaked sheets beneath him, the way the mattress sinks with his weight. 

And then he looks over. 

Something in him calms as soon as he sees Akaashi’s now-familiar form on the bed. His long, curled hair cascades over the bedsheets in a fluid, gorgeous pattern. The afternoon light brings his soft but sharp features into relief as it filters through the gap between the curtains, bringing out the darkness and thickness of his long lashes, his pale figure. He’s wearing little but his inner robes, and good _gods,_ he is _breathtaking._ A piece of art, the epitome of beauty that Bokuto could stare at for fucking _ages_ and still never tire of te sight of him. And the former athlete flits his eyes over his form, trying to shove a bruised and damaged Akaashi Keiji out of his mind as he makes sure the one _before_ him is perfectly fine, safe and sound, on the bed next to his in this room, separated only by the bedside tables with their little lamps on them. 

He blinks. 

How _did_ he and Akaashi end up in the same room? They’re in some apartment complex or something, for gods’ sake. There should be _plenty_ of vacancies to accommodate two people. So why is he here? With him? 

Why hasn’t he thought to question it?

Why hasn’t _Akaashi_ thought to question it?

Perhaps the immortal is already accustomed to Bokuto’s presence. But, still, the fact that neither Hinata nor Kageyama questioned it either… 

He shakes his head in an attempt to clear his noisy thoughts and looks up again. He nearly falls out of the bed; luminescent eyes meet with gunmetal-blue ones flecked with green, and Bokuto sucks in a breath. Their gazes hold for several tantalising, _agonising_ moments. Neither of them blink. Neither of them speak. There’s an ambiguous sort of tension in the air; suddenly the room is too hot. Too suffocating. Is the air-conditioning working? 

Then the immortal blinks, looks away, breaking the silence. “Bad dream?”

Bokuto’s expression says it all. His bewildered eyes meet with Akaashi’s calm ones as the latter glances back at him again. “How did you know?”

The other male’s delicate features frown ever-so-slightly. “How could I _not?_ You were tossing and turning around and whimpering like a wounded cub. You were saying something, too, but it was too soft. Not even _I_ could hear it. And you sounded…” He tilts his head to the side, then sits up, gathering his long hair over his shoulder and blowing a few locks hanging before his face to the side, long fingers deft and gentle. “Scared.”

Bokuto blinks and tears his eyes away from the pale hands. “What?”

Akaashi raises an elegant eyebrow. “I said you sounded _scared,_ Bokuto-san. Scared and worried. And very sad.”

“... oh.”

“Do you want some tissue?”

“Why would I need tissue?”

Akaashi’s lips curl ever-so-slightly. “You were crying.”

Hurriedly, Bokuto reaches up to touch his face. True to the immortal’s word, it's still wet with tears, and, embarrassed, he wipes them away quickly as he shakes his head. “I’m good! I’m good. No need for tissue, thanks.”

Silence falls between the both of them like a blanket again. Bokuto opens his mouth to say something when Akaashi interrupts him. “What was it about?”

“Huh?”

“The dream—well, nightmare, I suppose. What was it about?”

_It was about you._

“Uh…” _I can’t fucking say that!_ “It was about… _um_.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Akaashi says gracefully, ending Bokuto’s dilemma. “It’s just…” He frowns. Again, that pale hand reaches for the pendant tucked securely in his clothes, and he shakes his head. “Someone told me that talking about your nightmares can help sometimes. But don’t force yourself.” 

The small grain of guilt slaps the former athlete in the face and he can’t help but struggle to reassure him. And thank him for this small kindness. “It’s fine! It’s fine, Akaashi.”

“Why are you apologising to _me?_ ” His voice is soft, a little teasing as he shakes his head. “You’re allowed to keep your secrets.” Now, he frowns, then sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “Sometimes, some things are better left unknown.” Something about the way he talks is bitter, but only for a moment. When their gazes meet again, the deity’s eyes have once again returned to their usual calm, calculating coldness. 

“What time is it, by the way?” Bokuto glances around. “I don’t see a clock anywhere.”

“It should be about four in the afternoon,” comes the reply. Akaashi waves his hand once, checks the little watch in his hand, then nods his head in confirmation. “Yes. It’s a little past four in the afternoon.” 

“Damn,” Bokuto says. “I slept for a _while._ ”

“I suppose you needed it.” With a flick of his wrist, the watch disappears. “After that fight with the ghoul, I’m surprised you didn’t sleep _longer._ ”

“What time did _you_ sleep, then?” Bokuto asks; the words leave his lips before he can stop them. 

Akaashi raises his eyebrows. “Eleven in the morning, I believe. Or a little past that. You woke me up half an hour ago.”

He blinks. “Me? _I_ did?”

“With your tossing and turning and whimpering, it was a little hard _not_ to.” Akaashi taps his fingers on the bed. “I called out to you a few times, but you didn’t hear me. Then you just woke up on your own. And then you started staring at me.”

He reddens. “... oh.” The silence lingers for a few moments before he speaks again. “What were you doing?”

“I was discussing the case with Kageyama and Hinata.” Akaashi casts his gaze to the window, the afternoon light filters through its gaps. The elegant curl of his mouth, as always, draws the spirit’s attention as he sighs. “I knew it would be complicated, but not _this_ much. We can’t even tell where the head or the tail is, what more their _leader?_ ”

“They look happy together,” Bokuto offers. “Hinata and Kageyama, I mean.” He finds himself playing with his fingers in the manner that Akaashi often does, but doesn’t move to stop himself. Instead, the spirit glances down at them, watching the subconscious way his fingers pull at each other with a sort of detachment. There’s a wistfulness in his tone he doesn’t hear until he finishes talking. 

On the bed adjacent to his, the pale-skinned immortal lets out a sigh as he casts his gaze to the bed, picking at the pale sheets. “... yes. They do.”

Before he can stop himself, Bokuto finds himself asking, with a sort of apprehensiveness, “Have you ever had that sort of thing before? A lover, I mean.” His ears redden at this and he can’t help but tear his gaze away from the immortal, finding the carpeted floors much more interesting now as he feels the heavenly official’s weighted, cool gaze on him. His fingers tighten around themselves and he tentatively meets Akaashi’s gaze just as the latter begins to look away, eyes glazing over in thought. 

“... maybe.” He shakes his head here, then sighs. “I don’t know, to be honest. If I _did_ have a lover, they’d be my only one. But if I can’t remember them, I’m fairly certain the answer is _no._ ” Pale fingers gently close around the jade pendant; unexpectedly, he pulls it out, and its smooth surface catches the light. Bokuto is struck by how familiar it is to him, how its every detail is something he’s remembered _right._ “But I did have people important to me.” With a sigh of resignation, the jade pendant once more disappears into the folds of Akaashi’s robe as he says, with finality, “No, I’ve never had a lover. And I don’t intend to find one.”

_Oh._

“Oh.” Something about the way the word leaves his lips is uncharacteristically bleak, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth even as he says it. Akaashi Keiji has never had a lover and will never think of having one. Sure, that’s fine. Totally fine. Understandable, too; being an immortal and all, he _must_ be busy, right? There’s no way he’d find the time to hang out with his lover if he had one at all. And he’s already said that the Heavens don’t like him save for a select few. And he can’t _possibly_ find a lover in the Lower Realms or _this_ one what with the current situation and the vastly different lifespans, right? So it’s fine. Completely and utterly _fine._

But his heart hurts a little, throbs a little, all the same. _It’s like being rejected before a confession has been made,_ he thinks in self-deprecating amusement, shaking his head ever-so-slightly. _Besides, you’ve only known him for a few days! What are you getting all carried away for?_

  
  


But then some part of him thinks, _we were lovers once, Keiji. Don’t you remember?_

And, as always, Bokuto wonders how and why and what. 

_Gods, Koutarou, get your shit together already._

**——————**

They run into Kageyama the moment they step out of the room. Literally. Akaashi nearly bumps into him, and the younger male stumbles backwards in surprise. Unlike the gunmetal-blue-eyed immortal who elegantly regains his footing, this one flails for a few moments before regathering his bearings with his ears red and eyes cast to the ground in embarrassment. Bokuto bursts out laughing, further exaggerating Kageyama’s “please just let me die” expression while Akaashi, mercifully, doesn’t comment, apart from the ghost of a smile that plays across his thin lips before disappearing in the next moment as he clears his throat, saying, “Apologies.”

“It’s fuc—fin— _fine!_ ” Kageyama stumbles with his words, further increasing Bokuto’s laughter as he doubles over in amusement for the briefest of moments. Kageyama’s expression is severe, but with that flush on his face, it’s hard to take him seriously. So he clears his notes and ruffles his feathers, straightening his posture in an attempt to gather his lost dignity. “I’m _fine._ ”

“Sure you are!” Bokuto replies. “You’re so _fine_ you’re red!”

“ _Bokuto-san!_ I am _not_ red!” Kageyama cries, reddening further, but not continuing his sentence for fear of disrespecting the amused spirit in question. Then his expression changes to one of bewilderment and he blinks, squints, and tilts his head to the side. “Bokuto-san, you’re… solid?”

“What? No I’m not. I literally just walked through the _wall_ , Kageyama-kun.” To further prove his statement, Bokuto shoves an arm towards said wall, only for it to pass right through before he pulls it back out. “See?”

“No, I know that.” Kageyama frowns, then squints like an old grandma. “I mean you’re not flickering or fading on and off last night when you were attacked by the ghoul. You have a _form._ ”

“Well, yeah. I’m _here,_ aren’t I?” Bokuto raises an eyebrow as he uses his hand to gesture at himself. “Why do you sound so surprised? Is something wrong? It’s always been like this.”

Kageyama and Akaashi blink as one abruptly. “What?” The latter’s cool voice is laced with a hint of surprise and incredulity, perhaps even a disbelief as he frowns gently. “Explain.”

_Geez,_ Bokuto thinks in mild, helpless amusement. _Demanding, aren’t we?_

The spirit crosses his arms, frowning. “It’s always been like this. I got attacked a lot by, uh, the ‘demons’—” he uses his fingers to gesture air quotation marks at the word he’d only acquainted himself with not long ago “—when I was on the road. It wasn’t that bad at first, but they found me eventually.”

“What kinds of demons attacked you?” Akaashi asks before Kageyama can speak, frowning as his eyes examine Bokuto with a newfound, calculating interest that sends a thrilling chill up the spirit’s spine. “You were unscathed and unharmed when we first met. There wasn’t a single _trace_ of essence on you. Only that you were unusually powerful.”

“To be honest, I don’t remember myself who or what attacked me. I just know they kept coming for me for a time and that it wasn’t fun. Like, at _all_ , especially since I can’t fight to begin with,” Bokuto replies, shrugging sheepishly. “All I can do is throw a few punches. It was real nasty because I kept getting beat up. I healed pretty quickly, though. I’ve always been fast with recoveries. I rarely got sick when I was alive.” 

“Beaten up _how?_ ” Comes Kageyama’s curious question, his eyes keen. “Like. punches? Were there any weapons? Or was it just plain wild fighting?”

Bokuto frowns here. “All of the above? Most of them couldn’t even speak. But there were some with weapons that came for me. They said some nasty shit.” Bokuto carefully lifts up the back of his shirt and turns around to reveal a scar running from his left shoulder blade to his right hip; it’s a pale grey colour and it looks like it’s been there for months. Though, of course, it doesn’t bother Bokuto one bit. Over his shoulder, he says, “I don’t really remember what the guy said, but he said something like, ‘You’re missing a scar or two’ and he just went for it. We fought for a long time.”

“Who won?” Akaashi asks, frowning as he turns his gaze back to Bokuto as the latter turns around. 

“I did. I snatched his sword—shit’s heavier than it looks, I’ll tell you that—and stabbed him with it or something.”

The two immortals in front of him exchange a silent look, but something about Kageyama’s expression is slightly more complicated than Akaashi’s. Either way, they’re both silent, even as the cool-headed immortal steps forward to speak again. “Let me see the scar.”

“Sure,” Bokuto replies, too fast, too eager, as he turns around like an excited dog with his tail wagging so severely it might go bald. He lifts the back of his shirt again and, though Akaashi doesn’t touch him, the familiar weight of his cool gaze almost brings him to his knees. Fuck, is he _supposed_ to have this much power over him? He can’t stop reveling in his attention. 

“That’s not right,” the immortal murmurs softly beneath his breath. “This isn’t an ordinary wound. That was a sword demon.” Akaashi’s gaze hardens as it meets with Bokuto’s. “A new spirit like you wouldn’t have survived this cut.”

“But I did,” Bokuto replies. “And I have no fucking idea how either.”

The immortal steps away, shaking his head. “What _are_ you, Bokuto Koutarou?”

“I would have thought you of all people would know that,” comes the spirit’s thoughtful reply from a place that is not his own. Surprised, he closes his mouth, but the words have already left his lips. Akaashi narrows his eyes. 

“What?”

Kageyama clears his throat. “The point is, Bokuto-san’s an unusual spirit. And, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you _are_ solidifying.” The blue-eyed immortal tilts his head to the side in thought. “You’ll have an actual form in a few days’ time, at the very least.”

“Is that weird, too?”

“Maybe,” Akaashi replies finally. But his gaze is thoughtful. “But being weird, in your case, Bokuto-san, is not necessarily a bad thing.” Then he looks over at Kageyama. “Where’s Hinata?”

“He went out to look for more backup,” comes the reply. “Just in case Iwaizumi-san _doesn’t_ take matters into his own hands, or in case something goes wrong even if he does.” The young immortal purses his lips, then frowns. “I just don’t get how this was covered up for so long.”

Akaashi folds his hands together beneath his sleeves; he’d gotten dressed just before they left the room. “Beom is too far away to know of this matter in detail. I can’t ask him right now, anyway.”

“Beom?” Kageyama blinks, blanking out for a few moments, before recognition flashes in his eyes. “Ah! The snake demon, right? He’s an informant?”

Akaashi frowns. “Among other things, yes, but his information always comes at a fair price. Apart from me and a few others, he always charges, and not necessarily with money. But he’s reliable.”

“He’s a flirt,” Kageyama laments bitterly. “He has no shame, and he’s smug as fuck. I don’t like him.”

Akaashi’s smile is a little helpless. “Yes, he’s all of that. But he’s fair in judgement, and he knows to separate work from personal matters. And he’s… been through a lot. He’s a Sakurai, you know. Sakurai Shun’s cousin.”

Silence, for a moment. Then Kageyama’s expression changes from disdain to shock to disbelief, then pity, even, before he speaks again. If not for how severe his tone was, Bokuto would have laughed from the ever-changing colours of his face. “Wait. He’s _that_ Sakurai-sensei’s _nephew?_ ”

“Yes.” Akaashi gives a pained nod. “But he doesn’t like to tell people. His name—Beom—was given to him by his mother, who was Korean. She… was of Dong He* as I was.”

_*doesn't actually exist. 冬荷 is one of the names of the kingdoms. The first character means winter._

_Dong He is in the East. The Chinese character for East is also pronounced "dong", with the same tone. ;D_

“You’re not from Dong He,” Bokuto says quickly, then frowns. Surprised, the other two turn to him and Akaashi speaks up again, his voice uncharacteristically sharp and hoarse and bitter. 

“And how would you know that if you weren’t even _alive_ , then?” He asks softly despite his scathing tone. “You don’t even know where it _is._ ”

He’s right, Bokuto knows, but still, he shakes his head in stubborn refusal. “You’re not from Dong He. You’re _not._ ”

Akaashi’s eyebrows furrow together and he opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted by Kageyama, who intercepts. “He’s right, Akaashi-san.” His voice is soft, coaxing, though the spirit fears that it’s to no avail when the cold deity before them’s expression crystallises further. “You’re not from Dong He. You were born in Yao Long*—you said so yourself.”

_*also doesn't actually exist. 耀龙. Means something like Honoured Dragon._

“It makes no difference in the end,” Akaashi snaps, glaring. “Both have never repaid me for what I have done to them and what they have done to me.”

“Akaashi-san—”

“You weren’t there when the wars were happening, Kageyama,” Akaashi bites out his harsh reply, effectively cutting him off. “You don’t know what it was like, and you don’t know what I _went through_ for the sake of my home country, which took everything from me in the end, too, anyway. At least I spent most of my time in Dong He.”

“But you were happier in Yao Long, weren’t you?” Kageyama’s voice is guilty, soft, as he casts a fleeting glance at Bokuto. For a moment, he wonders if the latter knows how he looks right now; pained and sympathetic, torn between the urge to comfort Akaashi Keiji and just let him be, like a secret lover who doesn’t know his place or what to do, only that he’s concerned and sad. 

But no. Akaashi scoffs coldly. “Me? Happier _there,_ when they couldn’t even _trust_ me and treated me the same way I was treated when I was forced into the brothels and Bai Ze when I was young and in Dong He? No. At least I was respected there after I started doing my jobs. I’ve never had a home, Kageyama Tobio.” Whether unconsciously or not, neither of them but Akaashi himself knows, but he reaches for the pendant tucked beneath his robes all the same. “The word ‘ _home_ ’ has long been cast from my dictionary. I no longer understand it, and I no longer know how it feels to have it.”

Bokuto realises something. 

The war between two kingdoms, so many years ago, has long since ended. 

But Akaashi Keiji…

Akaashi Keiji has never stopped fighting the war with himself. 

**——————**

Bokuto finds himself on the roof. 

It’s never struck him how truly _tall_ this building is until now. It’s so high up that even the lights of Miyagi can scarcely be seen beneath the clouds. Instead, the fake stars below make way for the real ones above him, and Bokuto is completely and utterly mesmerised by them. The vastness of it, too; the shining, twinkling, little things set against the dark sky, spanning far before him, yet looking as though it’s within an arm’s reach.

He rather likes the stars. 

Today is decidedly more peaceful than the other ones since he’s come here. How long has it been since he’s met Akaashi? He’s lost track of time. It’ll be six days, soon, once the sun rises(because with Bokuto, it hasn’t really been a new _day_ until the sun comes into view). He’s struck by how quiet the world around him is; save for the occasional, faded sounds of a too-loud motorcycle or the honking of a car horn, there’s hardly anything else. 

A sense of tranquil falls over him. The spirit, with his legs dangling over the edge of the roof, leans back on his arms as he cranes his neck upwards to trace the patterns of the stars above him. 

He’s always liked the stars. The sky, in general. The vastness of it, the way it stretches before you, yet seems so close at the same time, is mind-breaking. Sometimes, Bokuto tries to see whether he can see its end, only to find himself staring endlessly into its abyss, staring up, up, up, until the only thing on his mind is, _wow, holy shit._ He wonders if those of the Upper Plane know how the sky ends. Wonders if they have the power to cover it with their very palms. 

Bokuto finds himself thinking of his conversation with Akaashi and Kageyama. The astonishment and disbelief on their faces when he’d told them what happened. To be fair, those months of his wandering, to him, are a blur. He can only vaguely remember being constantly on the run from this and that, that they wanted to eat him or whatever. He remembers being barely able to walk, his essence so faded he feared he’d disappear forever, and so tired he’d faint if he closed his eyes for too long. 

Now that he thinks about it, how _did_ he survive?

He frowns, leans forward. No, he can remember fighting. He can remember fighting back and always losing, so how does he always come out victorious in the end? And the thing about healing—it’s clear now that his rate of it is abnormal even by powerful spirit terms, so how? Akaashi told him something when they’d first met. That he was ‘ _powerful, but weak_ ’. 

He didn’t understand at first. He still doesn’t. But Bokuto thinks he’s starting to get it, even just a little. 

He frowns. How do people sit in thought for so long? He feels like he’s going to go crazy with all this thinking. He’s never been good at connecting dots, and he sure as hell won’t start now. 

“Bokuto-san?” A soft voice abruptly pulls him from his reverie. Startled, Bokuto lets out a yelp as he jumps and turns so fast he gets whiplash. Luminescent eyes meet with gunmetal-blue ones, with delicate eyebrows scrunched together and elegant, thin lips gently pulled down into a frown. “What are you doing here? How did you even find this place?”

“Uh…” Surprised, Bokuto clears his throat and tries to reel in his embarrassment. “I asked…?”

“And they just… let you?”

“Why?” Bokuto tilts his head to the side in curiosity, frowning. “Am I not supposed to be on the roof?”

Akaashi blinks once then sighs, shaking his head. “No, it’s just—not many people have access to the roof. It’s… a very private place, I suppose.”

“For brooding?” He can’t help the teasing lilt his voice takes as he flashes the immortal official before him a charming, broad smile. 

Akaashi looks away, but the slight curl of his lip doesn’t escape the spirit’s notice. “... yes. Brooding. I suppose that’s a good word for it.” He turns his gaze back to Bokuto, then raises an eyebrow as he steps forward, quietly taking a seat next to the spirit. He leaves a safe amount of space between them; one that Bokuto is tempted to close without any regard for the other, only to stop himself before he gets too carried away. He fights down the impulse just as the heavenly official speaks again. “You didn’t answer my other question. What are you doing here?”

_To think about you and myself,_ Bokuto thinks quietly. _Us, maybe?_

But he says, “I wanted to see if I could see the stars from here. I can, by the way.” He gestures at the vastness before him, above him. “It’s really pretty.” _Like you. But I already told you that._

Akaashi raises an unconvinced eyebrow before speaking again. “What were you thinking about?”

_Aw, man, he got me._ So he chuckles and returns his gaze skyward, reaching out his hands and using his thumbs and forefingers to form a rectangular frame. He closes an eye and looks through it, at the stars, as though he intends to sear it into memory. That, and this moment, with Akaashi Keiji by his side. “It’s nothing much. Just weird dreams, I guess.” Sighing, he puts his hands down, then frowns. “I just think they’re important. I don’t know how yet, but they’re important.” He glances over at Akaashi, who nods thoughtfully, and he’s suddenly grateful that the latter think he’s a little screwed up in the head. Since, well, _he_ would, if he heard someone prattling on about how dreams are important and might be more than just dreams. “It’s not that important.”

“It is if you make it to be,” comes the calm reply. Unlike Bokuto, whose gaze is focused on the sky above, Akaashi stares ahead. “You don’t look like the type to think about things like that unless they’re really important. In detail, anyway. Unless it was something stupid that made you think you were high on something, I can’t see you taking apart the puzzle pieces for a dream unless it really struck a chord.”

Bokuto flinches back, surprised. _I feel called out._ “Eh…”

Akaashi says nothing, but the raised eyebrow he gives the spirit is enough. _Am I wrong?_

And, no. He’s not. So he sighs and huffs out a laugh. “What’s this, Akaashi? Suddenly, it feels like you know me so well.”

“I’ve spent six days wandering about with you,” Akaashi reminds him. “That’s plenty of time to learn about someone. I’ve picked up enough things.”

He frowns. “But it’s only been _six days._ ”

“And for six of those days, you and I have been together for every second,” Akaashi reminds. “You’ve spent your life with friends in bursts of hours or a few days, but have you spent all twenty-four hours of one with them?” 

He supposes he has a point. So Bokuto laughs, shakes his head as he leans back to accommodate the weight being thrown about by his shaking shoulders. “Alright, fine, you got me, smartass.” When he calms down, he fixes his gaze on Akaashi, not missing the slight amusement twinkling in the other’s eyes. “So I’ll ask you something now instead. Do _you_ dream?”

The twinkle fades somewhat, and Bokuto nearly smacks himself for extinguishing it. Akaashi breathes out a small sigh as he casts his gaze downwards, at the sprawling buildings below, at the artificial lights that serve to make the view below akin to a sea of fake stars. “... sometimes.”

“Sometimes? What of?”

The deity frowns. “Of… things. I don’t know. I see glimpses, mostly. But I never remember them.”

For one reason or another, Bokuto’s heart skips a beat, and he sidles closer to Akaashi. To his surprise, the latter doesn’t move away; their bodies are so close their thighs are almost touching, and still, the dark-robed immortal doesn’t move away. A thrill runs through Bokuto’s body, but, like a coward, he stops himself from moving any closer for fear of scaring him away. “Glimpses?” His voice is soft. Softer than usual, and low. Akaashi sucks in a small breath. 

“Glimpses,” he affirms, voice a little hoarse, a little quiet. “Of things I’ve forgotten before, but they’re never clear enough for me to understand anything.” For the second time, Bokuto watches as Akaashi pulls out the smooth, jade pendant, his pale fingers gently, almost tenderly, tracing its every detail, every intricate pattern carved onto it, with soft eyes. “But I know this is important.”

His heart warms. “Important?” He’s inching forward every-so-slightly. Just a little more, and they’ll be touching. Bokuto’s tense and ready to move away so long as Akaashi voices or shows any dissent or discomfort, but he isn’t showing a thing. He’s as cool and unruffled as ever. He doesn’t even seem to take notice of their decreasing proximity. 

“Important. To me, and… in general.” Finally— _finally_ —he looks up and their gazes meet. Bokuto finds himself short of breath. “I don’t know how or why, but it is.”

“Is that why you keep it?” _Closer._

“Yes.” Their gazes hold; Akaashi’s grip around the pendant tightens, but he doesn’t look away. His breathing grows shallow. “I feel like it’s… I don’t know. It feels like it’ll come in use in the future.” His voice softens. “And… someone important gave it to me.”

“Important how?”

“To me, I think.” Pulling his gaze away, he looks at the jade thing in his hands. “And to the country I was under.”

“Yao Long?”

“Yes.” He frowns, here. “But why?” His voice is soft, almost vulnerable. Bokuto doesn’t understand what the question means, but he feels pained all the same. And he has a feeling Akaashi is asking himself more than anything. “But they were important. To everyone.”

His heart warms a little. “That’s nice.”

Akaashi smiles a little. “Yes. It is.”

There’s a bout of silence. Then, surprisingly, Akaashi, who is always ever-s0-quiet, is the one to break it. “You asked me earlier—about lovers.” He tucks the pendant away. “I’ve never had one. I don’t—” Akaashi hesitates, cuts himself off with pursed lips before he continues again “—I don’t know how it feels. To love. Or to be loved.” He meets Bokuto’s gaze, hesitantly, and Bokuto is struck by the absolute vulnerability in them. Somewhere, deep down, Akaashi Keiji longs for it, he realises. For love. For warmth. For companionship. 

For _someone_ to keep him company in the world he thinks to be so very _lonely._

He continues. “What Hinata and Kageyama have—I won’t ever have that.” Silently, Bokuto scooches ever-closer, and finally, _finally,_ their thighs touch. And Akaashi doesn’t pull away. In fact, he almost… _leans into it._ “And I don’t deserve it. I’ve done too many things in this long life of mine.”

Unable to help himself, he blurts, “Like what?”

Akaashi pauses. Then he sighs and pulls away completely. Bokuto sees the change as it happens; the way his eyes dim, harden, the way the soft lines of his face harden. The way he pulls away and goes back into himself as he once again puts a little distance between them.

It’s like he’s driven a knife through Bokuto’s heart, really.

“Why am I telling you all of this?” Akaashi asks softly, shaking his head. “I must truly be tired. I don’t even _know_ you.”

And, just like that, the second knife drives itself home. 

“But you _do,_ ” he insists. “You _do_ know me.” _The same way I know you._

“I _don’t,_ Bokuto-san,” comes the cool retort. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t make any sense.”

And he’s right. So he says something else instead. “Fine. But tell me anyway.” 

“Why do you want to know? It was a long, _long_ time ago.” 

He crosses his arms. “ _Exactly._ It was a long time ago. So why are you still letting your past dictate your present, your future? Why are you letting it tie you down?”

Akaashi’s gaze hardens. There’s silence for a few tense moments. It’s only when he sighs that Bokuto realises he’s been holding his breath. “The first time I killed someone, I was twelve. On my birthday, I think.” He rubs his hands over his arms, closes his eyes in an attempt to steady his breathing. Bokuto stays silent, and he waits. He doesn’t notice the way Akaashi’s hands shake ever-so-slightly. “He was a patron.”

Bokuto blinks. “A patron?”

“I worked in a brothel as a courtesan. I was tossed in there the day I turned ten,” Akaashi bites out harshly. “He was my client for the night.”

The way he says it sends a chill down Bokuto’s spine. “... Oh.” 

“He was a noble.” Akaashi’s fingers fiddle with themselves. His nails scratch down the back of his hand, but he appears wholly indifferent to the pain. “An old man, I think.” His fingers press in. Hard enough to draw blood. “I killed him. Killed him before he could put it in. And then they sent me away.” Red, on his hands. Red, on his face. Someone howls at him, begs for mercy. Red, red, red, _red._ The skin beneath his nails break and blood flows. 

“Where?”

“To Bai Ze Academy. They taught me how to kill better and how to cultivate.”

Bokuto finally notices the shaking, the bloody nails and his bloody hand. Alerted, the spirit asks, “Akaashi?”

“Bokuto-san.” He sounds distant. 

“Akaashi!” Unable to help it, he seizes Akaashi’s hand, and, startled, the deity jumps, then shoves him away in the next second before he can stop to think about what he’s doing. Bokuto topples to the ground in surprise, but he scrambles up. Akaashi Keiji looks as composed as ever, but his eyes are glazed. Taking a gentler approach, he keeps his hands at his sides, his expression pained as he says, softly, “I’m sorry.”

Akaashi doesn’t acknowledge him. So he continues. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t.

Gently tapping Akaashi’s shoulders, he puts himself in his line of sight. “Akaashi, look at me. Can you see me?”

Akaashi blinks once, twice. Slowly, he nods. 

“Okay. Okay, listen to me. Breathe with me, okay? In and out. In and out.” He keeps his gaze wholly on the immortal before him. “Um. Uh, okay, look at me and tell me where you are right now.”

“Roof,” Akaashi utters. “Of Hinata’s complex. On a roof, watching the stars. Talking to you.”

“Talking to me, yes.” Gently, he raises a hand, and Akaashi takes the smallest step backward. He pauses his movements. “Akaashi, I’m putting my hands on your shoulders. Is that alright with you?”

The deity hesitates, then nods. Bokuto does just that as he meets the deity’s slowly clearing gaze. “Okay, good. Good. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It won’t happen again, yeah? And it’s over now. I’m sorry.”

There is always more to the war within oneself than meets the eye. 

They stand there for a few moments more, quietly, matching their breaths. Finally, Akaashi pulls away. The blood on his hands has dried, but he doesn’t bother to clean it up as he breathes out a slow breath. “Sorry. That normally… I thought it wouldn’t happen again.”

“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have made you talk about it.” He feels terrible. 

Akaashi waves a hand and opens his mouth to speak, only to pause as his eyes catch onto a black figure flying its way to the building. It’s a crow; around its neck, there’s an orange colour, with something fastened to it. 

“What’s that?”

“Hinata’s messenger.” Akaashi is already making his way to the door. “Let’s go see what the Heavens have to say.”

**——————**

“You’re not going to open it?” Bokuto asks. Akaashi’s hand is devoid of any wound or blood now(it _was_ a small scratch, after all). He clutches the scroll in it. 

“No,” the deity replies, shaking his head. “It’s best that Hinata and Kageyama read it first. Let’s go.” The deity is already winding through the halls and floors of the building. Bokuto hurries to follow in his steps. 

“But how do you know where they are?”

Akaashi lets out an uncharacteristic snort. “Where else could they be?”

The doors of the lift open and they step into the suite once more. Akaashi raps his knuckles against the wall—hard—thrice, and says no more as he continues to walk into the room. He stops before a door and, again, knocks before opening it. 

And they find Hinata and Kageyama hurrying to dress, cheeks flushed and hair a mess. Bokuto catches a glimpse of—is that a _hickey?_ —on Hinata’s chest, and looks away, eyes wide and face flushed. Like a champ, Akaashi remains unmoving and unperturbed as he patiently waits for the couple caught in spicy action to gather their shattered dignity and wits. “What’s up?” Hinata squeaks, when they’ve finally been dressed.

Akaashi wordlessly hands over the scroll. “Your messenger came back with this.”

That seems to be enough to snap the two out of it. Kageyama and Hinata exchange a look and the former reaches out. He unfurls the scroll after undoing the ribbon tied around it to keep it in place, and together, the couple read through it. 

They suck in a breath. Hinata and Kageyama look up. “They’re sending help,” Kageyama says.

“When?”

“He should be on his way right now. He’ll be arriving—”

Kitsu barges into the room after knocking haphazardly thrice. “Hinata-sama! Kageyama-sama! He’s here—!”

The couple’s grins are identical. Hinata finishes his boyfriend’s sentence. “Now.”

A new set of footsteps reaches their ears; rhythmic and forceful, the sound of heavy leather boots colliding with the ground. The five of them collectively turn around to meet with harsh dark eyes set against tanned skin and black, spiky hair. 

Iwaizumi Hajime tilts his head to the side. His voice is rough, deep, impressionable. 

“Yo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HE'S HERE, HE'S HERE, HE'S IWAIZUMI HAJIMEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


	8. War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diyu is basically the name of Chinese hell. Will be using that instead of Underworld.

* * *

_Like sand in his palm, he always slips through, and before Bokuto can try to gather it, it’s already gone._

* * *

Sun-kissed, tanned skin. Harsh, warm eyes the colour of coal. Bokuto Koutarou once again finds himself looking at an extremely familiar face. 

_“Trust me. I swear I won’t hurt him—you have my word.”_

_“Your words mean_ shit _to me, Bokuto Koutarou,” he hisses back, his gaze sharp as a blade, his knuckles white with restraint as he tightens his grip on his whip. “How do you expect me to trust_ you _of all people?”_

_“I never go back on my word.”_

_A snort. “Yeah, unless you’re throwing out promises to those of Dong He.”_

_“Akaashi is different.”_

_“But_ I’m _not.”_

Bokuto blinks once, pulling himself back to reality as he stares at the immortal standing before him in bewilderment. It’s only then that he realises that the others are 

slowly sinking to their knees, and he hurries to follow. 

Iwaizumi’s expression changes the moment Akaashi starts sinking to his knees; his eyes fill with a sort of panic. Almost frantically, he clears his throat. Shaking his head, his hands flail for but a moment before he says, “You don’t have to kneel.” His words are rushed, breathless, panicked. “Please, Akaashi-san, don’t.”

Akaashi remains on his knees, head bowed, before he rises ever-so-slowly, calm and elegant as ever. It’s only when he’s straightened that he speaks, leveling his gaze on the deity before him, voice cool as ice. “Why not?” He asks. “It is only natural for me to pay respects to My Lord.”

Iwaizumi cringes at the title. “You don’t have to call me that,” he says softly, his hands lowering to his sides awkwardly. Bokuto catches sight of a coiled whip at the immortal’s side; he’s dressed in pale, cyan and white robes lined with gold, the whip strapped to his hip, a bow slung across his shoulder, and a heavy sabre at his side. Iwaizumi Hajime is an arsenal, a one-man army, and he stands as though he’s got the world on his back, but his weapons are weightless. In his eyes, there are remnants of a war long gone. Judging by the familiarity he treats Akaashi with, Bokuto’s fairly certain that the two have known each other for a very, _very_ long time. They probably fought in the Dong He-Yao Long war together. 

“It is only natural,” Akaashi says smoothly. Kageyama and Hinata rise, looking only a little starstruck, which is, of course, a stark contrast to Akaashi’s usual calm expression. “You are, after all, one of the direct messengers of the Upper Plane.”

“I’m not,” Iwaizumi replies helplessly. “That’s Oikawa.”

The dark-robed immortal tilts his head to the side, a small smile curling at the edges of his lips. “Talk is that you will soon join your beloved in that position.”

Iwaizumi grimaces. “You believe such hearsay?”

Akaashi’s gaze casts itself skyward. “Would the Heavens and those above permit such rumours to run so freely if it were false?” His gaze meets Iwaizumi’s calmly. “I think not.”

It’s silent for a moment. Then—

“I’m sorry I came so late,” Iwaizumi apologises sheepishly, a rough, calloused hand coming up to palm the nape of his neck as he glances to the side somewhat guiltily. “Judging from your letter, it seemed like you guys had _quite_ a fight before—”

For the first time since his entrance, Iwaizumi glances Bokuto’s way. Coal-black eyes meet with luminescent gold ones and the deity’s words fail him. In fact, he almost chokes as he cuts himself off completely. When he regains his bearings, the first thing he blurts out is, “ _You?_ ”

Bokuto blinks. “Uh… Me?” Pointing at himself in confirmation after glancing around several times to make sure Iwaizumi is looking at _him_ and not someone else behind or beside him, he tilts his head to the side and blinks, not unlike a bewildered owl. “What about me? They had a rough time before me? What?” 

“What are _you_ doing here? You’re—”

“Iwaizumi-san,” Kageyama interjects, his tone one of panicked warning. His blue eyes glance upwards once, and then he meets the astonished deity’s gaze once more, expression cagey. But he says no more. 

Bokuto blinks again. 

Iwaizumi clears his throat, coughing into his fist as he shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowed together as he frowns in thought. The light-robed official exchanges a glance with Kageyama and Hinata, but speaks no further on the subject. Hesitantly, he gives Bokuto another strange glance before veering back onto the subject at hand. “Uh… I need to sit down. We have a lot to discuss.”

Kageyama makes a gesture. Kitsu, who’s remained silent throughout the whole exchange, hurriedly bows and disappears. Hinata turns around and gestures for the group to follow, which they do. 

Once they’ve all settled in their seats in the lounge, Iwaizumi clasps his hands together, frowning, as though he can’t decide what to talk about first. There’s a moment of hesitation; his eyes flit over to where Bokuto is seated next to Akaashi, their thighs almost touching, and a sort of sharp pain flickers in his eyes at the sight. Naturally, both spirit and dark-robed heavenly official miss this. By the time they meet his gaze, it’s regained its usual stony determination and warm kindness. When he speaks, his tone is tired, and he runs a hand through his spiky, dark hair. “Someone’s covering this up,” he begins, meeting each and every one of their gazes. Even Bokuto’s. “I caught a servant sneaking around with Hinata’s letter. If not for the timing, I don’t think I would have received that piece of paper at all. I had to use force.”

“So there _is_ a spy?” Kaegayama asks. 

Iwaizumi purses his lips. Though he doesn’t confirm it, he doesn’t deny it, either. Instead, he says, “Maybe. But if there are, it isn’t just _one._ I doubt that boy had a big role to play in all of this.” 

Hinata speaks up, voice small. “... so Heaven is truly not safe anymore?” 

Anguish flits across Iwaizumi’s face. “We did some more investigating. Miyagi isn’t the only one who’s fallen victim to these attacks. Oikawa is… he’s not happy. And that means the ones up high—higher than us—are probably _royally_ pissed. And the fact that this has been going on for years, right under all our noses—that isn’t helping either.”

Akaashi’s gaze is one of caution as it flits over to Kageyama and Hinata, who exchange a look. The latter is the one who ends up speaking. “Kageyama and I wondered before if the heavens had spies planted around… so it’s true?”

The martial deity’s calloused hands find their way to his whip. Hesitantly, he pulls it out, running his hands over the bronze handle. His eyebrows are so furrowed, Bokuto wonders how the guy doesn’t have any wrinkles. 

_He’s a deity,_ he thinks to himself drily. _How can he have wrinkles if he can just wave them away?_ And then, _man, that would be so useful._

The man finally concedes. “... Maybe. I don’t know.” He runs a tired hand over his face. “I’ve been running around doing investigations these past few months. Oikawa… he has his suspicions, too. And… deities, there’s so much going on. It’s all a hot mess.” 

There’s silence. 

“And so,” Akaashi begins drily, folding his hands neatly across his lap. “The heavens are, once again, corrupted. What else is new?” 

Iwaizumi, Hinata and Kageyama’s expressions are all one of guilt and helplessness, but none of them refute. Bokuto glances in the deity’s direction and notes the particular, extra stoniness in his eyes, his tone, the way a cold fire burns beneath his otherwise cool gaze. 

And he realises that Akaashi Keiji has never loved the heavens. 

But where would you go if you don’t even have a place to call home? 

_I knew the Heavens were bad,_ he thinks bitterly, _but I didn’t know they were_ this _bad._

“And you,” Iwaizumi finally says, cutting through the silence. His gaze lands on Bokuto and he folds his arms together, leaning against the couch with his head tilted to the side, lips curved downwards in a frown. “How do _you_ come into all of this?”

Bokuto blinks. “Why are you so pissy with me?”

The words aren’t his own, per se, but he says them nonetheless the moment they pop into his mind. He doesn’t realise he’s frowning until he notices the astonished expressions on everyone’s face, and, sheepishly, he withdraws his expression, averting his gaze briefly. Thankfully, before Iwaizumi can refute, Akaashi cuts in with a sigh. “I picked him up off the street, Iwaizumi-san. I saw his name on the records for wandering souls in Diyu and figured I’d pick him up and help him to solve his grievances since he was on the way.” Akaashi taps his fingers against his thigh. “Why are all of you always so apprehensive?”

Iwaizumi’s face is almost green, and Kageyama and Hinata wear identical expressions of sympathy and pity. Bokuto frowns, confused, and Akaashi merely rolls his eyes. “Well?”

“Because…” Hinata says. Immediately, Kageyama and Iwaizumi’s eyes latch onto him. He pauses for a moment, frightened, before he straightens his back and levels his gaze, determination shining in those bright eyes. “Because he’s _Bokuto Koutarou,_ Akaashi-san.”

The aforementioned official raises an eyebrow. “And? What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’ll know in time,” Iwaizumi interjects just as Hinata opens his mouth. His eyes cast themselves skywards before he continues half a beat later. “... If that is what Heaven wills, you will know in time.”

Akaashi snorts, but says nothing. But his words hang in the air, mocking and sceptic in nature. _Sure. And we all know how Heaven’s will works._

“Anyway,” Iwaizumi says, once again trying to bring them back to the topic at hand. “Ushijima’s been sent to Hyogo to meet with the twins and Kita-sama.” Pursing his lips, Iwaizumi finally returns his whip to its rightful place at his hip. “Since the case we assigned Akaashi to investigate turned out to be more of a shitshow than we expected, well, Oikawa and the others figure that the other places must be going through the same thing. Which I’m fairly certain I’ve mentioned not too long ago.”

“Well,” Kageyama comments. “Oikawa-san isn’t the war strategist of the Heavens for nothing.”

A tentative smile curls at the cyan-robed deity’s thin lips as his harsh eyes soften and fill with what can only be love and pride. “Yes,” he sighs. “You’re right.”

_God,_ Bokuto thinks. _I do_ not _want to see these two in the same room together._

“To be fair,” Akaashi begins, effectively wiping off Iwaizumi’s doe-eyed expression with his voice. “None of you gave me an actual _location_ to investigate. I had to rely on external resources.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes grow cold. “Like who?”

“Beom.”

The official blinks. “Beom?”

“He means Sakurai Kohaku,” Kageyama supplies. “And his cousins.”

At this, the other falls silent, freezing in his seat. Then, hesitantly, he meets Akaashi’s calm gaze. “... I forget that you have dangerous connections.” Harsh eyes flit over to Bokuto for a split second, and the latter tilts his head in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing. But Iwaizumi doesn’t elaborate. 

“How is Beom dangerous?” The ex-athlete blurts, unable to reel in his curiosity. “He just seems a little feisty to me…? I can’t understand how someone like him can pose so much danger.”

“Well,” Iwaizumi huffs out a breath, a scowl painting his features as he crosses his arms and legs tightly, leaning against the couch. “For one, he knows too much. More than he should, and, usually, of things he shouldn’t.” 

Bokuto blinks. “And? What’s wrong with knowing shit?”

Iwaizumi levels his gaze at Bokuto. There’s a sort of pressure to it, the type that usually makes animals sink back in fear, but for some reason, the spirit meets it steadily, head-on. He doesn’t shy from it and, instead, makes himself seem expectant for an answer. Perhaps spending these few days with an upright, sort-of-proud deity has rubbed off on him. But then the dark-eyed man’s gaze turns thoughtful, contemplative, calculating. Then he says, slowly, “Some things, Bokuto Koutarou, are better left unknown. And some things are _meant_ to be buried in the flow of time.”

“Sounds like a coward’s way out,” is his immediate reply.

Iwaizumi’s snort is condescending. “You forget that, most of the time, it’s the cowards who survive.” 

Bokuto opens his mouth to reply, but Hinata cuts in. “And Sakurai Kohaku—Beom-san—is one of the best killers of his time. Even now, he still is.” Hinata crosses his fingers together. “Too smart, too cunning, too all-knowing, and with a talent for killing—how could the Heavens _not_ be apprehensive of him?”

“And he’s not an immortal. He’s a demon,” Kageyama adds. “With what happened to his father, he has every right to hate the Heavens. And so, those up top have every reason to be cautious of him.” 

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “Not just him. All of the people who took part in the rebellion—or even their relatives—they all have a right to hate the Heavens.”

“What makes it different is that Beom’s father was an immortal,” Akaashi adds in quietly. “And he, as the son of a ‘sinner’, can never have the privilege of being one. He won’t ever have a divine weapon of his own, and even his cousins are treated as outcasts in the heavenly realms.” 

Bokuto frowns. “But why?” He asks. “It wasn’t their fault, right? Whatever happened.”

Akaashi’s laugh is chilling. “Iwaizumi would tell you that it’s because Heaven is strict, and that it wants to make an example out of those who dare to oppose it. But _I_ think it’s because they’re all greedy, sadistic, power-hungry cowards who can’t bear the humiliation of having one of their own turn against them.” 

Iwaizumi looks like he’s been stabbed with a knife, but he doesn’t refute. But Hinata speaks, his voice pained and soft. “How could you _say_ that, Akaashi-san?” He asks sorrowfully. “You _live_ there.”

“Just because I have a dwelling in the realm above doesn’t mean I consider it _home,_ ” Akaashi responds coolly. “When have they ever treated me warmly? When have they ever given me help in my time of need? _Never._ ” His hand flies upwards; Bokuto knows he’s clutching the pendant that’s ever-present around his neck. “Not when I needed it most, and certainly not now. And now that there’s a _spy—_ ” his laugh is sharp, like broken glass “—they _deserve it._ ”

Bokuto wonders, briefly, what Akaashi must have gone through to amass this sort of bone-deep hatred. But before he can open his mouth, Iwaizumi speaks, frustration creeping into his tone, “You’re still a heavenly official, Akaashi. You can’t just say that.”

The dark-robed deity meets the other’s equally dark gaze coolly. “And I wish every second of every day that I am not.”

“Then why don’t you quit?” His voice raises itself just a fraction; his crossed arms tighten and his hands turn into fists. “Why do you stay if you still hate it so much?”

Akaashi opens his mouth, then pauses. A mystified sort of look flashes across his face and he frowns, his hand dropping from the pendant he holds. 

Silence.

Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t…” Akaashi blinks, then shakes his head. “It just… It feels like I owe it to someone to stay.”

“So Heaven isn’t as benevolent as everyone makes it to be is what I’m getting from this,” Bokuto finally cuts in. Next to him, the dark-robed immortal chuckles emotionlessly in agreement, but comments no further.

Eventually, Iwaizumi sighs and turns to Hinata, making it clear that the topic has come to an end. “So tell me, in detail, what’s been happening. Your letter was good, but I still need the info in detail.”

So Hinata talks. He talks of how they’d only realised the attacks had been happening only two months ago and how they’ve been trying to stop it, though they still can’t find the root of the problem. How he and Kageyama’s investigations led them to believe the ghouls have a leader and that someone in the heavens might be covering up for whoever that is and their sinful deeds. Kageyama adds in a few things here and there, and finally, they speak of what happened after Akaashi and Bokuto arrived. How the attacks kicked up, how things started spiralling. 

The dark-eyed deity frowns at this before turning to the dark-robed official seated next to Bokuto. “That’s suspicious.”

Akaashi’s hands clasp together. “You’re thinking of the war, aren’t you?”

Iwaizumi’s expression doesn’t change much. Instead, his frown deepens and he shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s suspicious enough as is, but now that the attacks have kicked up only _after_ your arrival… It just reminds me of it.”

“It’s a very far stretch to assume the attacks kicked up because of _my_ involvement,” Akaashi comments calmly. “I’m nothing but a lowly official from the Upper Realm. How can you be sure it’s because of _me_ and not because Heaven has sent officials to investigate the situation?” 

“Because,” Iwaizumi responds tightly. “It’s _you._ ”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.” The deity coolly folds his hands together over his lap as he levels his gaze at the spiky-haired one, hie bearing ever-so-patient and immovable. “Care to elaborate?”

“I can’t,” is the reply through gritted teeth, a frustrated growl. “Heavens, Akaashi, I would tell you if I could, but the problem is, _I can’t._ Neither can Hinata or Kageyama. _None_ of us can.”

At this, Bokuto blinks at the same time Akaashi’s elegant features turn down into a slightly confused frown. “... Tell me what?”

  
  
Iwaizumi shakes his head, lips shut tight. If it were Bokuto, he’d have pried more, but Akaashi is not Bokuto Koutarou. So the spirit watches as the dark-robed deity’s gunmetal-blue eyes dim and he recedes into himself, falling silent and still once more. Under the soft light of the lounge, he looks, as usual, beautiful. Ethereal. The spirit finds himself thinking of their time on the roof not so long ago, the way the deity allowed him to sidle close. Closer and closer. 

And then he’d pushed him away. 

Pushed him away and said they didn’t know each other. Pushed him away and told him he didn’t want a lover, that he’d never had one, that he’d never wanted one. Bokuto casts his gaze to the side, missing the keen way Akaashi’s returned his gaze, as though he’s calculating something and mulling it over. No, he’s too absorbed in his own thoughts to even listen to the conversation happening in front of him.

_“Why are you covered in bandages_ again, _Akaashi?” Bokuto frowns, stepping forwards. Unsurprisingly, the assassin retains his cold bearing, his eyes giving the impression that he’s looking down on Bokuto, who’s taller than him, even as he takes the smallest step backwards. “What happened?”_

_“Why do you care?” A cold, hard voice bites out begrudgingly. “Don’t you know what an assassin is good for? Your emperor oh-so-graciously offered me another job.” A sharp, bitter laugh fills the room. “Coming here was a mistake,” he hisses. “What’s the difference if I am made to kill the same sort of people over and over again no matter where I go?”_

_A chill crawls down Bokuto’s spine. “Let me help you.”_

_“No,” Akaashi replies stonily. “I don’t want your help,_ Bokuto. _” The way Akaashi spits out his name like it’s a curse, paired with the way there’s no honorific or title before it, is a blatant act of disrespect. Once upon a time, Bokuto might have already started to fight. They’d be at each other’s throats with their words and their actions._

_But the more time Akaashi Keiji spends in Yao Long, the more Bokuto sees of him, the more he finds himself pitying him._

_And that pity naturally overpowers any sort of hatred or misgivings he’s harboured for the assassin. It gives way to a sort of kindness, a sort of warmth—one that the assassin before him is too cautious and suspicious of to accept. To him, it is too foreign, too unpredictable a variable._

_And humans, demons, animals, whatever species there may be—they are always afraid of that which they do not understand._

_So he sighs. “I won’t hurt you.”_

_“Sure,” comes the sarcastic, deadpan reply. “That’s what they all say before they start beating me up.”_

_And before Bokuto can reply, there’s the faintest rush of wind, and then Akaashi Keiji is gone._

_Like sand in his palm, he always slips through, and before Bokuto can try to gather it, it’s already gone._

Bokuto pulls himself back into reality. 

The officials before him are still discussing matters, completely and utterly oblivious to his sudden flashback. Or, well, whatever the fuck that was. Iwaizumi’s rough, sandpaper voice reaches Bokuto’s ears and effectively pulls him out of the last of his thoughts as he asks, “Kageyama said you called for backup?”

The orange-haired official nods his confirmation. “I did, but… I can’t be sure if they’ll be free or not. You know how they are.”

“Oh, so I know them,” Iwaizumi comments, frowning. “With how the Heavens are right now, I can’t say that that’s reassuring. Can we really trust them?”

Kageyama and Hinata exchange a glance before they turn to meet Bokuto’s gaze. Clearly, they hadn’t expected that he would meet their eyes, because the both of them jump in surprise. Both glance away sheepishly, mirroring the other’s actions before Hinata properly answers the pale-robed deity seated next to them. “I’m sure we can. They’re reliable, and they’ve been helping us for so long.”

Bokuto wonders if the Heavens like to talk in circles. 

The discussion lasts long. By the time Bokuto goes to sleep, it’s almost one in the afternoon. 

**——————**

“How did you become an immortal?” Bokuto finds the question leaving his lips before he can stop it. They’re back in their room; Akaashi is disrobing and the spirit is very respectfully looking away with his back faced to the deity as the sound of rustling clothes fills the room. The soft _thump_ of several _qiankun_ pouches being set on the bedside table enters his ears, and he knows they’re the ones given to them by Shun and Hwanjae. 

As usual, Akaashi takes his sweet time. He lets the question hang in the air for a few moments longer as he tidies his things and takes out the clothes he intends to wear the day next. Just when the spirit thinks he might have to either repeat the question or drop it completely, Akaashi’s quiet voice enters his ears. He sounds reluctant, almost. “... I did many things in the past.”

So the spirit frowns, turning around after he deems it alright. True to his assumptions, Akaashi is seated on his bed, wearing only his inner robes, long, dark hair cascading over his shoulders and down the bedsheets. He is the very _picture_ of cold, serene beauty, and tenderly, Bokuto thinks, _my jewel._

The former athlete pulls himself out of his reverie with the slightest shake of his head. Akaashi raises an amused eyebrow, but comments no further. His pale hands are, as usual, delicately folded over his lap as his back remains straight as a pillar as he patiently waits for Bokuto to gather his bearings and respond, no doubt with yet another question, if past experiences are anything to go by. 

“Is it one of those ‘great feat’ things?” True to the heavenly official’s assumptions, Bokuto asks another question. Amused with himself, a small smile tugs at the corner of his thin lips but vanishes as soon as the spirit meets the deity’s gaze, as though it was never there at all. “Like… you’d have to do a really, _really_ good thing, like the type that could shake the world and all that jazz, or you’d have to do some unspeakable amount of bad. Is that it?”

And now his expression thoroughly sours. Again, his hands find the pendant hung around his neck. Akaashi’s gaze is far, far, away, even as his voice remains stable, cool and ever-present. “I suppose you could say that.”

“What did you do?”

Akaashi’s gaze is ice-cold, but Bokuto holds his ground and doesn’t shy away. Instead, he meets it head on, letting the curiosity and determination in his eyes speak to the heavenly official in front of him instead of using his words. 

“I told you I was an assassin,” he says cautiously, but Bokuto refutes it immediately.

“You can’t say you killed a lot of important people,” he says. “It wouldn’t make any sense, otherwise. If that’s the case, why don’t other assassins ascend? Heck, why doesn’t _anyone_ who’s killed anyone or fought in the war ascend? It just doesn’t add up. You had to have done something mind-breaking, or whatever.”

Actually, Akaashi knows this. It’s just that he’s never quite known the reason for his ascension _himself,_ and so, his endless years of going around and around searching for the _why_ to his rise has always led him to this. So he shakes his head. “Bokuto-san,” he begins. “I’ll be honest with you—I don’t quite know myself.”

To which the spirit frowns. “That’s… weird.”

Akaashi almost snorts. _That’s one way to put it. ‘Suspicious’ is more accurate._

But alas; mortals will always hold the Heavens in a higher regard whether they know of its corruption or not. Bokuto is, of course, no exception. 

“What was it like?” He asks. “Ascending, I mean.” 

“Nauseating,” Akaashi replies almost immediately. There’s no other word that’s more suitable than this one. “I felt like jumping off the moment I got there.” 

Bokuto blinks. “Why?”

  
  
Akaashi taps his fingers on his lap absent-mindedly. “It just… it felt like I didn’t belong there. And none of them treated me like I did, anyway. They still don’t.”

“But you _are_ a heavenly official, right?” Bokuto shakes his head, unable to comprehend the ways of heaven. “Aren’t they all supposed to be, like, centuries old? Why are they all acting like highschool students?”

Surprised, the deity lets out a laugh. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”

“But I’m not wrong, right?” The man’s golden gaze seems to sparkle after knowing he’s made the dark-haired immortal laugh. “They… they’re like a bunch of teens.”

“The adults of this world do the same thing, Bokuto-san,” comes Akaashi’s reminder. “You forget that they were once human. Not all humans are forgiving and benevolent. There will always be an outcast, and I am one in more ways than one in their eyes.” He fishes out his pendant, holds it up to the light. “This pendant is not one that the gods like to see. I do not know why myself, but I can’t stand it when they insult it. So I keep it hidden.”

“Is that why you were so defensive about it the first time we met?” Frowning, Bokuto leans forward. Then, unable to help himself, he walks over to Akaashi, crossing over an imaginary line he wasn’t sure he could cross to begin with. But, contrary to his expectations, the deity doesn’t make him back away. He lets him approach. 

The spirit’s gaze traces the object in Akaashi’s pale hands. He itches to reach for it, but holds himself back for fear that he might be pushed away again. He isn’t sure if he can handle going through that twice in one day. Akaashi is like a cat; Bokuto can’t recklessly approach him. 

“... Yes,” the deity replies, finally. With one sitting and one standing, Akaashi has to look up to meet the other’s gaze. Bokuto sucks in a breath. “Among other things. The demons are not unaware of who I am. Some like to insult me and some like to treat me with respect. I thought you were of the former category.”

Bokuto frowns. Hesitantly, he makes to sit down, and, surprisingly, Akaashi shifts over to accommodate him. Careful to avoid the locks of hair on the bed, Bokuto gently gathers the soft locks and sets them aside, lamenting that he can’t run his hands through it. Though he feels like being able to touch his hair without asking to is already a blessing in itself seeing as Akaashi didn’t bite his hand off for it. “How do they know who you are?”

The other combs his delicate fingers through his hair as he gathers it to the other side so Bokuto can sit without being conscious of his dark locks. “I mentioned that those of Diyu favoured me more than those in the Heavens. It’s because I often find myself helping them.” He frowns. “Demons are often treated like they are beneath those of the heavens, even to the officials. I don’t treat them that way.” He meets Bokuto’s gaze. “In my early days, I was often sent to the Lower Realms to aid the officials—not heavenly ones—in charge below. That is why I am so acquainted with it.”

Somehow, Bokuto thinks it’s oddly fitting, though he can’t place why. “Did you hate it when they assigned the task to you?”

  
  
“No,” comes the immediate reply. Akaashi shakes his head. “I knew they were lowering my position as a whole while they were sending me down, but Diyu is more homely than the Heavenly Realms. The ghosts live like they have nothing to lose; they’re more likely to treat you with kindness and respect if you treat them the same way. And they’ll _remember_ you, because they know how it feels to be forgotten.” A gentle smile tugs at Akaashi’s lips. “I find myself rather fond of them. You would like it there. They’re all very loud and very inclined to party and have fun.” A slightly amused gaze meets with Bokuto’s. “I’m sure you’d like that.”

Though Bokuto is fairly certain that he was just insulted, he can’t help but grin. “Akaashi,” he coos. “You know me _so_ well!” 

The deity rolls his eyes. “Six days is a long time to know someone if you’re spending all twenty-four hours with them back-to-back.” 

_And maybe,_ Bokuto thinks, unable to help himself. _It’s because you’ve already known me far before that._

_You just don’t remember._

He frowns. 

_And I don’t either._

**——————**

When Bokuto wakes up seven hours later, he runs into Iwaizumi. Literally. He bumps against his back and both men stagger in surprise. 

“Oh,” Iwaizumi says upon meeting Bokuto’s gaze. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Bokuto agrees, tossing the deity a careless grin, which seems to irk him. He finds it ironic how it’s the _god_ that’s more uncomfortable rather than the spirit, but doesn’t comment on it. “How’s everything going?”

Iwaizumi’s tone is stiff. “... It’s alright. We were discussing how we’d handle the situation.” He relaxes minutely, now that he’s talking about something he’s more comfortable with. “And what might go down in the near future.”

Sarcastically, Bokuto says, “Let me guess—a big fight?”

Iwaizumi blinks. “Well, yeah. In a few days, at the latest, probably.”

Bokuto falls silent, clearly not expecting to be right. But then again, with how things have been going, he supposes he shouldn’t be so surprised. So he asks, “What do you do? In Heaven, I mean.”

Iwaizumi frowns. “I’m a martial god. One of the major ones, so I handle bigger things like these. I’m in charge of questioning any criminals, too. My whip—” he gestures to the weapon at his side “—helps me make sure they aren’t lying.”

“What happens when they do?”

“... Well, it keeps them alive. Barely.”

Bokuto blinks. “Oh. So you’re, like, high up there?”

The deity blows out a breath. “I guess you could say that.”

“Why do you look at me all weird, by the way?” Bokuto asks, leaning against the wall. Iwaizumi stiffens somewhat, but doesn’t really answer. So the spirit keeps talking. “You look like you want to say something but it always gets stuck in your throat. And like you have no idea what to do with me.”

Iwaizumi almost chokes and ends up coughing instead. Bokuto’s eyes widen and he rushes forward. “Whoa, dude, you good?” 

The deity holds up a hand. “I’m— _fine,_ ” he chokes out. “Just. Give me a moment.” 

So he does. When Iwaizumi finally gathers his bearings, he straightens and clears his throat, a sigh escaping his lips. He gives himself a few more moments before speaking again. “You…” He frowns, purses his lips, then continues. “You just remind me of someone, is all.”

Bokuto blinks. “I do?”

“Yeah. I knew him really well.” Iwaizumi snorts. “I hated him at first, though.”

“Oh.” The silence falls over them like a blanket before the spirit breaks it again. “Was he a good person?”

  
  
“He was. But he was also misunderstood a lot.” Iwaizumi’s gaze is distant, as though he’s recalling a memory. “He was a very bright person. He invented a lot of things that we still use today. Some people sort of upgraded his things, but a lot of them—the ones he made himself—are still here. And they’re still in use. You might have used a few already, but you just don’t know it.” Iwaizumi tilts his head to the side. “Sometimes, I wonder what he’d think of this world and the current Heavens if he were still here.” 

Now, he levels his gaze at Bokuto. “... You would have liked him.”

“What was his name?”

But before Iwaizumi can answer, there’s a sharp rap on the door, which they probably shouldn’t have been able to hear seeing as the door is on the ground floor, where they _aren’t._ Nonetheless, the duo rush down upon hearing it. Akaashi, Kageyama and Hinata join them along the way.

The door opens. 

Bokuto’s golden eyes meet with mismatched ones. Dark hair, thick lips, mischievous eyes. _Beom._

His slim figure stands in the doorway with crossed arms and a wholly unimpressed expression, but his tone is one of urgency. “Took you long enough.” He steps in, meeting each and every one of their gazes.

“You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did forget to mention that this story is very plot-heavy. We're reaching the end of the first arc! I promise there will be more bokuaka action in the next. I might be taking a break either this week or after the next chapter to prepare for exams, so just a heads up to all of you.


	9. Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter for a while until my exams are over ^^  
> Also made some corrections to the last chapters bc my brain pulled a fucky and I used the wrong words. They're not that major, though, but if there were parts that confused you bc of the wording, I've corrected those.

* * *

_“What’s poppin’, bird brain?”_

* * *

The silence Beom’s words leave in his wake is almost endless. It’s the shocked, bewildered, confused kind that radiates a sort of “excuse me, but what the _fuck?_ ” energy and, clearly, the immortal is relishing in it. Bokuto can see it in the way his lips curl up slightly and the way his eyes glint mischievously. And he supposes he can understand why, when everyone’s expressions are almost comedic. 

Finally, the subject of their attention waves his hand. “I know I’m quite the lovely specimen, gentlemen, but I fear that staring too much will cost you more than you would dare imagine.” His grin is crooked, his peach blossom eyes turning into crescents that would have been endearing and charming if not for the way his smile makes him seem like he’s up to no good. A too-clever fox, a too-smart snake, a too-efficient killer. And his charisma, his smooth confidence, paired with his devil-may-care demeanour, makes him all the more unpredictable. 

Okay. _Maybe_ the spirit is starting to understand why the Heavens might be conscious and wary of this man if he truly holds as much power as he acts like he does. If he truly is who they say he is. A liar and a cutthroat with too much knowledge in his brain, too many secrets. Too many schemes. 

He meets each and every one of their gazes easily, as though he’s the wolf among sheep. As though he’s the cat watching the mice. As though all those around him are not those of the Upper Heavenly Realm, all forces to be reckoned with, to fear. In fact, when his gaze meets Iwaizumi’s coal-black one, he doesn’t so much as blink nor bow. Instead, he flashes a smile that would probably be more accurately regarded as a baring of teeth as he tilts his head to the side and addresses mockingly, “But first, I am to pay respects, no? As is the tradition. The custom.” His grin is like a dagger; sharp and breathtaking and terrible all at once. “I am so very _honoured_ to be in the presence of the Truthseeker, the General of one of Heaven’s many armies, and the rumoured soon-to-be ambassador of the Higher Plane, Iwaizumi Hajime.” He inclines his head shallowly, but something about the gesture is disrespectful, though the gesture should be anything but. Bokuto notes that, despite the man’s small size, he seems to take up the entire room. He, too, has a knack for looking his nose down on people who are much larger, much taller, and perhaps even much stronger than he. “I am _truly_ humbled, My Lord, to be allowed to bear witness to your _benevolence._ ”

Iwaizumi’s gaze hardens and a muscle in his jaw ticks. His eyes flick over to Akaashi for but a moment before he focuses it back on the demon before him, small as he is. But he is wary. Of this small little thing who is deliberately disrespecting him. 

Iwaizumi sort of looks like he wants to punt him. And, well, Bokuto supposes he wouldn’t blame him, what with the tone the snake is taking. The spirit reckons he himself might have lost it already, if he were in position. 

For some reason, he feels like Iwaizumi’s patience is uncharacteristic of him. But then the immortal flicks his gaze to meet with Akaashi’s again and Bokuto realises he’s holding back because the snake demon is the other male’s _friend._

… They _are_ friends, right?

“You would do well to show respect,” Kageyama says tightly. Hinata holds his arm tight, knuckles white and nails digging into the former’s flesh as he’s being held back by his lover. 

And Beom, careless as ever, raises his eyebrows languidly. “Did I just not do exactly that?”

Hinata laughs condescendingly. “You made a mockery of his titles!”

Beom frowns, though there is nothing careful in the way he speaks nor the look in his eyes. “To be fair, _Hinata,_ he _does_ have a great many titles.” He waves his hand dismissively. “It tires me to remember them.”

“The important ones you should remember,” Iwaizumi growls lowly. “Are ‘Truthseeker’ and ‘General’.”

Beom rolls his eyes. “How very predictable of you, _General._ ”

Iwaizumi steps forward, hand tight on the handle of his whip, eyes ablaze with frustration and impatience. But Beom does not budge. Instead, he meets the deity’s gaze straight on, cool as ice as the deity stalks forward. But Bokuto notes how he reaches behind him, as though he is looking for a weapon. But his hand closes over nothing, and he is still as a statue in the face of an oncoming storm. 

“You said we weren’t going to like what you had to say,” Akaashi finally speaks up calmly. His voice pauses Iwaizumi’s advancement, and the snake demon lazily sweeps his gaze over. His mismatched eyes are unreadable as he smiles, inclining his head towards the dark-robed official standing next to Bokuto. 

“Indeed,” he purrs, then turns to meet Iwaizumi’s gaze, something calculative and evaluating about the expression gracing his features. Contemplative. “But first, I’d like to sit.”

Iwaizumi’s ever-present scowl deepens further at the demon’s words and he crosses his arms. “No,” he snaps. “This is urgent. You’ve made that clear. Speak.”

Beom snorts and rolls his eyes. “I just ran all the way here from Hyogo, General,” he says. “I think these news are better delivered after I’ve seated. I find everyone is much more accommodative when seated, you see. Especially for this. Maybe. Hard to say with such a mixed group.” He shrugs. 

“That,” Iwaizumi says tightly. “Is _precisely_ why you should tell us _now._ ”

“Weren’t you in Tokyo?” Bokuto asks eventually, frowning in confusion, to which Beom responds with an amused smile.

“That was nearly a week ago, Bokuto. When you do what I do, it’s hard to remain still, you see.” His grin is every bit as disarming and charismatic as it should be, and it catches Bokuto completely off-guard with how absolutely carefree he is.

“If you ran all the way _here,_ ” Hinata supplies, frowning, not at all kind. “You should tell us _now._ ”

Beom raises a thick eyebrow. “I’m already here, aren’t I?” He drawls. The others bristle at the sound of his lazy, bored tone. Bokuto is almost certain that the demon is doing this—pissing them off—on purpose. “You’ve waited for news for a little more than a day, My Lords. I am sure you can afford to wait a few minutes more.” 

Kageyama scowls, his expression mirroring Iwaizumi’s. Akaashi told Bokuto once that Kageyama once admired—still admires—the General’s lover, Oikawa Tooru. That he trained under them and with them before they ascended. The spirit supposes he can see that now, what with the way their stances are nearly identical, along with the way their eyebrows furrow angrily with lips turned down in rage. “This is no small matter.”

“Sure,” Beom says, not unlike an adult humouring a child, albeit rather drily. “Totally didn’t know that.” 

Iwaizumi’s hand reaches for the handle of his whip abruptly, eyes ablaze. Next to the ex-athlete, the dark-robed immortal tenses. But he does not move—not yet, at least. Beom’s smile twists into something else more disconcerting—a sort of twisted delight at having successfully touched a nerve, along with the sick glee of a challenge gleaming in his eyes, despite the fact that his lips remain only slightly curled in a languid sort of mirth. Iwaizumi’s voice is rougher than sandpaper, deeper than the sea, harsher than any pain one might feel. But it is little more than a hiss that sends chills up Bokuto’s spine. “You forget your place, _demon._ ”

Unperturbed and uncowed, Bokuto rolls his eyes again. “Oh, _please,_ call me something else, would you?” He waves a hand as he stalks forward, purposefully ignorant to the deity’s murderous expression as he walks right past him. “I know very well what I am. Do you Officials lack common sense? Creativity, perhaps?” He barks a condescending, acrid laugh. “One would think the lover of Oikawa Tooru would also inherit the man’s wit and grit. And patience, maybe.” He looks over his shoulder; it’s the one that’s pink, his pupils narrowed into snake-like slits. “I suppose I overestimated you, General.” He frowns. “Or, well, _underestimated,_ depending on how you look at it.”

And then he steps into the lift. When had they started to follow the demon? How does he even have _access_ to that lift? As far as Bokuto knows, only Hinata and Kageyama, along with Kitsu and Akaashi(with the exception of Iwaizumi, who holds Kitsu’s spare) has access to it. And yet…

_And yet._

And so, when he steps in and turns around to meet their gaping faces, he raises an unimpressed eyebrow and gestures for them to enter, as though it is _his_ lift, as though this is _his_ building. “Well? Surely you don’t want to wait any longer.” 

Kageyama and Iwaizumi exchange a glance. Bokuto has no doubt that they’re thinking the same thing:

_I hate him._

But Akaashi seems more amused than anything, as though he is used to it. 

“How do you know how—” Hinata starts, then blinks, shaking his head. “No, wait, how do you even have _access?_ You aren’t supposed to open _that_ lift unless you have the card!” He sounds so confused that the end of his sentence lifts, giving the illusion that he is asking a question rather than incredulously voicing a statement. If he could, he’d likely have question marks all over his head. 

Beom only flashes a secretive smile. “You mean this?” From his sleeve, he slips out a card. Written on its smooth surface is Hinata’s name, but no more. The tangerine-haired man’s eyes widen and he fumbles for his pockets. When he looks back up, his mouth is agape in disbelief, shock, and what might be grudging acknowledgment. 

It occurs to Bokuto that Beom had passed by Hinata earlier, but he had made no movement to pause. 

The bicoloured-haired man tilts his head to the side in thought. _A liar and a thief indeed._

The demon tosses the card back to Hinata. “Just a little trick, Your Grace,” he says smoothly and pleasantly. His smile is almost pleasant. “Perhaps you should be more alert instead. Are all Officials this clueless?”

_No,_ Bokuto reconfirms thoughtfully. _I_ definitely _don’t want to get on his bad side._

“Beom,” Akaashi sighs, a warning in his tone. 

Beom smiles wickedly as he shrugs, but finally, he quiets, stepping back to allow the rest of them room in the lift. Though not before a sigh and a “yes, yes, I’m not a child” can leave him. 

In short, the ride up to the suite is, thankfully, short. 

They stumble out like a bunch of caged animals set free as soon as the doors open. Beom disappears and reappears just as quickly with a drink in his hand, though Bokuto can’t even _begin_ to fathom how he knows where they might be when he’s already been up here several times and can’t tell left from right. Hinata seems to share his bewilderment when he blinks and asks, “Wait, wait—how do you know where the drinks are?”

Beom takes an easy sip, then raises an eyebrow. “You forget who you’re talking to. I think it would be more concerning if I _didn’t_ know the interior of your building like the back of my hand.” At Hinata’s shell-shocked look, he barks out a laugh. “You can keep asking your questions, Your Grace, but know that I will not answer them.”

Kageyama looks like he’s about three seconds away from stabbing the demon, but Beom throws a wink in his direction instead. Then, the ever-so-eloquent Kageyama Tobio begins to sputter and look away, both flushed and disgusted, whispering a string of curses and swears beneath his breath. Bokuto is stricken by how old and familiar those curses are, but where has he heard them before? 

“You are _infuriating,_ ” Iwaizumi spits. 

The demon grins wickedly. “Oh? So I’ve been told. I suppose I’m grateful that you’re all so very willing to play with me.”

_So infuriating and frustrating them is like a game to him,_ Bokuto thinks, equal parts delighted, bewildered and amused to watch this unfold. If he’d had popcorn, he’d be inhaling it by now.

But alas, he does not, and so he can only try to keep a straight(or somewhat neutral) face. 

Beom notices and winks, as though they are sharing a secret. 

The former athlete has no room to react before Iwaizumi speaks, dangerous and low. “You have ten seconds, Sakurai Kohaku,” he seethes. “Ten seconds to sit your royal ass down and speak.”

Beom frowns. “I _do_ quite dislike that name,” he comments, languidly sitting in the chair, though nothing about his actions make him seem like he is following orders. “Sakurai Kohaku.” He tastes the name on his lips, then rolls his eyes in disgust. “What a burdensome surname. Will you continue to call me it out of petty spite?” His eyes glimmer in challenge. “How word of such an endeavour would _delight_ those below you.”

“I will argue with you no longer,” Iwaizumi finally says, voice taut with restraint as he sits down. “You will tell us what you know, and you will leave.”

“I _do_ quite like it here, though.”

He explodes. “Will you _stop_ being an _insufferable_ bastard and _tell us already?_ ” Iwaizumi’s voice raises, and it’s a boom in their ears. “I don’t want to be around you any more than _you_ want to be around _us._ ” 

The demon tilts his head to the side. It’s only then that Bokuto sees the dark, cold, simmering fire of hatred burning beneath those mismatched eyes, but there is something like pity in them, too. “Eight hundred years I have lived,” the demon begins, voice soft. “And you people still lack the creativity for insults.”

“If you do not speak, I can and I _will_ use my whip,” Iwaizumi warns.

Beom raises an eyebrow. The pity in his eyes vanishes as quickly as it comes and he holds up his arms. “Use it, then. Perhaps I will spill a few of your secrets while it compels me to speak the truth. Wouldn’t _that_ be fun?”

“ _Beom._ ” Akaashi’s tone is hard and cautionary. “That’s enough. You’ve had your fun.”

The snake demon rolls his eyes. “Not _nearly_ enough.” But even as he says so, he adjusts his posture in his seat, and that mischievous, hateful glint is cast from his eyes when he looks at the group of them again. 

The group falls into silence once more, but unlike the suffocating tension in the lift, this is more heavy, with a sense of foreboding that hangs in the air. When Beom breaks it, it’s with a clap of his hands before he rests them on his lap. “Okay. This is how it is.” He cracks his neck to the side to get rid of some stiffness before continuing, meeting their gazes slowly. “This is going to sound crazy—don’t interrupt, General, I need your focus for this and it’s important—but to put it simply, your suspicions are right.” 

Stretching his nimble legs, he sighs. “There is, in fact, a leader telling the demons what to do. The only problem is that they’re not of the Heavenly Realm. Which means, obviously, they have allies in there, so, yeah, there are probably plenty of spies running amok in the Upper Realms. It’s a wonder how your Upper Plane is unaware of such activities.” Beom raises a bemused eyebrow at the heavenly officials, but only Akaashi remains still; it’s a stark contrast to the rest of the immortals bristling in anger. “I don’t know who it is yet. I’m still looking—it looks like they’ve got a lot of people stationed to keep it all hush-hush. And when I mean a lot, I mean _a fuck ton._ I literally can’t believe I’m doing all of this for fuckin’ _free._ ” The snake demon rolls his eyes. 

Before any of them deigns to speak up, he plows on, effectively sealing their lips. “Anyway. There’s a lot of traps and false info around, so I still need to sort through all of that. You’ll know I’ve got the info when I show up at your door.” He winks like he’s sharing a secret, then grows serious once more the next second. “And, well. You’re gonna want to start gearing up.”

Iwaizumi frowns. “Why?”  
  


Beom raises an eyebrow. “Patience, General,” he says smoothly. “I’m not finished. And I’m getting there.” He grins at the fury in the pale-robed deity’s eyes, but doesn’t comment any further on it. “I’ve heard from multiple sources that Miyagi will be subject to an all-out attack.” He leans back in his seat, crosses his legs and steeples his hands together. His head is slightly lowered, giving the impression that he’s peering at them through his long, dark lashes. “I don’t know when and how they’ll be doing it, but it will be in a few days time at most. Even today, if your luck is truly terrible. And I also don’t know how many ghouls will be taking part in it, because, well, I suppose there’ll be too many to count.”

The whole room stiffens at his last words, apprehensive. Bokuto thinks of when the remnants of his soul, of _him,_ were nearly sucked out and the moment he almost disappeared for good not long ago, and then he remembers the ghoul who called Akaashi a Dragon Lord. 

Huh. Why Dragon Lord, anyway? 

“Why?” Hinata blurts out, unable to contain himself. “Why _here?_ ”

“Because it’s easy,” is the swift reply from Beom. He gestures at the room around him. “Miyagi has its defenses, but it is not as heavily fortified as Tokyo. You guys have the bare minimum, but you still have so many mortals. Why _wouldn’t_ they attack? And, well, now that the General is here, that will only urge them to strike sooner. Because if they succeed, not a single mortal soul will be left, and if none of you go down with them, the blame of failure will be thrust onto all present for losing an entire city of souls. Of dooming an entire city of souls to never return to the Wheel of Reincarnation.” 

“They’re trying to kill an _entire prefecture,_ ” Akaashi reminds tightly. “Are they insane? Do they truly think they can succeed?”

“Oh, Akaashi,” Beom sighs, as though lovesick. “It’s going to be a wonderful, spectacular, and terrible _massacre._ ” His words end in a purr as he languidly leans back against his seat. “A pride of lions can take down an ox. A pack of wolves can kill a grizzly bear. When this city has only, what, four deities, how can you compare to hundreds—maybe even _thousands_ of ghouls?”

“But they’re stupid,” Kageyama says bluntly, to which Beom barks out a laugh. 

“You’re forgetting,” he begins. “That now they have a _leader._ And that this leader of theirs—whoever they are—is no dull blade.”

Iwaizumi finally speaks, his voice low and rough. “Why are you telling us this? You’re not going to help us fight, and you don’t _care_ about the affairs of the Heavenly Realms. And you have nothing to gain from helping us.”

The demon’s mismatched gaze is evaluating as it meets with the other’s coal-black ones, and he tilts his head to the side, contemplative. “We pick our battles wisely, General. But, trust me—it’s not for your sake.” His tone is sweet and acidic all at once. “I’d _love_ to watch the Heavens scramble for new personnel to replace their oh-so-brilliant Generals and General-to-be’s and let this whole event throw the Upper Realms into chaos as they scramble to gather their forces. No doubt this would catalyse the rotten core of that overzealous, pretentious and presumptuous place you might call home, but, unfortunately, I have debts to repay someone I actually like—no, it’s not the spy, I have no reason to help them, whoever they may be for now—but I also don’t want to see Akaashi wrongfully punished. Again.”

The immortal deities(save for the sudden subject of this topic) all flinch collectively, but Bokuto frowns, confused. “Again?” 

When the other’s mismatched gaze lands on him, it’s cool and holds a twisted sort of amusement in them as he smiles, as though he is sharing a secret. It makes Bokuto oddly uncomfortable. “Oh, yes, Bokuto. Though I find it ironic that _you_ are the one to ask me this question.”

Akaashi frowns here, too, confused. But the rest tense. The dark-robed deity opens his mouth to speak. “What is that supposed to entail?”

The smile on the snake demon’s face is sickly sweet and makes Bokuto, for the first time, want to punch him. If this is how it feels to be played with by Sakurai Kohaku, he doesn’t want it. “Only the Heavens know,” the snake demon drawls easily, and elaborates no further. And then he returns to the subject at hand, the acrid but teasing look in his eyes fading as he gets back into business. “In short, My Lords, this little crew here of four plus one will not be enough to hold them back. The ghost realm is not yours to command, and Hinata’s troops—crew, whatever—of demons, will not be enough to hold them back. I hardly think they will be of much use at all.”

Hinata tenses and puffs up in offense. “Are you calling my fighters _weak_?”

The brunette smiles like an adult humouring a child throwing a tantrum. “Oh, no, of course not.” He shrugs. “I’m merely saying that the difference between your people and a bunch of feral ghouls is that one side has everything to lose, and the other has nothing. Nothing to lose and everything to gain. And they aren’t intelligent enough to think of more than one thing at a time, save, I suppose, for the elders that have amassed enough power to speak and think properly for themselves. They _were_ human once, after all.”

Silence. 

“How did you know that?” Akaashi asks.  
  


The demon blinks. “Oh. I intercepted the letter that Hinata was going to send to the General before it could get too far.” He smiles languidly. “You don’t think I get all my information so quickly by just _hearsay,_ do you?”

Iwaizumi’s knuckles are white against the hilt of his whip. Akaashi only sighs. Hinata and Kageyama are gaping at Beom, and Bokuto is equal parts impressed and terrified of what this man can do and just how far he is willing to—and _able_ to—go. And the demon is clearly rather happy with the attention he’s getting. 

“Anyway,” he continues. “The point is this: in battle, those that don’t want to die always die first. That’s what makes Hinata’s men and these ghouls different. It’s not exactly about skill—it’s about how one is fighting to protect their own life alongside those of others, and another is fighting to kill for their own benefit regardless of whether they get out of it alive or not. One kills to save and defend, and another kills for sport and food. One cares about a million things at once, and another cares only about their next meal. One worries, one doesn’t.” He tilts his head to the side. “And while the ghouls aren’t intelligent enough to formulate a plan to counter us, that doesn’t mean their leader doesn’t. What I’m saying is this: you’re going to need a few more people to back you up _at least._

“One Iwaizumi-sama isn’t enough?” Hinata asks, though he already knows the answer. Probably. 

Beom scoffs. “You’d need two or three more, Hinata. And that’s only the bare minimum.”

“We asked for backup—”

“I know you did. But you can’t even be sure if they’ll be here.”

Hinata grows quiet here, unable to retaliate, because what the demon says is the truth. They _don’t_ know if their telltale backup will be here in time, if at all. For all they know, they could have already been intercepted on the way. 

Iwaizumi scoffs. “Will _you_ offer your help, then?”

Beom’s gaze is calculating. “I’ve mentioned earlier, General, that my cousins and I like to pick our battles. This is one neither of us intend to take part in for the time being. We do not know enough, and we do not want another reason for the Heavens to put a target on our backs—on _my_ back. All I can offer you is information.” 

The General’s expression is unkind. “Coward.”

The demon smiles here. “Don’t you know, Iwaizumi-sama?” He asks slowly. “It’s the cowards that always make it to the end. We’re like weeds, you see. You want us gone, but we are all survivors. We’ll _always_ find a way back.”

“You’ve said this before,” Bokuto blurts, much to Iwaizumi’s chagrin and Beom’s delight. “Like, you just said it before he came.”

The demon grins at the glowering general. “Glad to know we are in agreement, then.” 

Iwaizumi throws Bokuto an “I’ll deal with you later” sort of look before he brings his focus back to Beom, who says, “Play smart, not hard,” in an insufferable smug manner as he smoothly rises from his seat. “I can’t offer you a concrete date to look out for, but just be ready. And pray that your ‘backup’ will be in Miyagi before everything literally goes to hell.”

“They will,” Akaashi assures firmly. 

Beom’s smile is ambiguous. “Well, if they’re who I think they are, then I won’t be surprised.”

And, knowing the snake demon, he probably actually knows already. 

Bokuto blinks. “Who’s the backup?”

Before any of them can reply, Beom cuts in. “You’ll like them, Bokuto,” he says, turning his small frame to face him. “Don’t worry about it.”

_I wish these people would just give me a straight answer for once._

**——————**

Iwaizumi turns to Bokuto. “Do you know how to fight?”

“Funny question!” The spirit squeaks immediately, though he isn’t quite sure why. When Iwaizumi frowns, he forces himself to calm down and explain. “I mean, uh.” He steals a glance at Akaashi, who has an eyebrow raised in amusement. “That’s kind of… it’s hard to answer.”

“It’s a yes or no question,” Iwaizumi says thinly, his patience stretched to the point of breaking. “It can’t be that hard.”

Bokuto scratches the nape of his neck awkwardly. “Um, about that…”

“My patience is at its limit, Bokuto, and I’ve already expended it,” Iwaizumi cautions angrily, his eyes dark with rage. “And I have enough on my plate. Stop fucking talking in circles.”

Bokuto doesn’t say that everyone else has been talking in circles to him ever since he’s arrived, but he hasn’t complained about it just yet. But then he supposes that he doesn’t have as much on his plate as the immortal before him does, so he exchanges a look with Akaashi before recounting the incident where Akaashi was harassed and Bokuto lost it. This, and with the man in the forest.

“So you met a potential spy, and you didn’t tell me _immediately?_ ” Iwaizumi questions as soon as they’ve finished. 

“We would have,” Akaashi responds calmly. “But the moment you got here, you threw yourself into work. We could hardly get a word in.”

Well. _Bokuto_ certainly hadn’t thought to tell him. He’d nearly forgotten about that incident, really, but he has no qualms about telling Iwaizumi. Instead, he asks, “But I’ve never learned to fight before in my life. That’s the weird thing about it. _I don’t know how to fight._ ”

Iwaizumi looks constipated, but he purses his lips and doesn’t explain why. Before Bokuto can question him, the General interrupts him. “Fine. Then we can have a round right now and see how you’ll fare.”

“Iwaizumi,” Akaashi cautions, frowning. “He lost to the ghoul. There is no guarantee that he will be able to fight back.”

Iwaizumi unclasps the whip from his hip. “Only one way to find out.” He gestures once at Kageyama, who nods and immediately calls for a servant, murmuring instructions. Not a moment later, the demon is back with a sword in hand. 

“This isn’t a divine weapon,” Kageyama says as he hands it to Bokuto. “But it has plenty of spiritual energy.” 

Iwaizumi and Bokuto stand and face each other; one a haughty general and the other nothing but an ex-athlete thrown into a world he is wholly unfamiliar with. But he doesn’t protest.

Still, the sword in his palm feels off. Too light, too thin, and not to his liking. 

But beggars can’t be choosers. 

It starts before Bokuto can blink. Iwaizumi is in front of him in the blink of an eye. The spirit’s eyes widen and he raises the sword in his hands; the whip and the blade collide with a resounding clang before Iwaizumi draws his weapon back. Bokuto winces at the strength behind his strike. He stumbles back. 

_Holy shit._

“Again,” Iwaizumi says. 

This time, he is more ready. He avoids the whip and lunges forward, but Iwaizumi easily dances away, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “Too slow.” And then the whip is in front of his face. Bokuto ducks and rolls away with a yelp he hopes Akaashi doesn’t hear. 

Their back and forth ends when Iwaizumi’s whip coils around his blade and the weapon is yanked from his hands. Bokuto stands, shell-shocked, thinking, _that didn’t even last five minutes!_

“I _told_ you I couldn’t fight,” Bokuto says eventually, helpless, like a wrongfully blamed pup. 

Iwaizumi scowls. “You fucking suck.”

_Jeez, didn’t need to go_ that _far!_

The General turns to Akaashi. “Whatever happened was probably luck or something else. Whatever it is, we don’t have time to mull over it right now after what your _friend_ told us.” He grits his teeth, then turns to face the ex-athlete, meeting his golden gaze. “I’ll teach you the basics. Just enough so that you at least know what the fuck you should be doing when you fight. And so that you won’t die permanently.”

Iwaizumi is a harsh teacher. Eventually, they are forced onto the roof so they don’t destroy anything. There is no mercy when he gives critiques, and yet, he is patient with mistakes. He does not grouse; instead, he stops to explain clearly. 

“Don’t—your elbows shouldn’t be flailing like that.” Iwaizumi demonstrates a pose for him. “You’re doing it like this—yes, you are, don’t give me that look—but you should be doing it like _this._ ” 

“You know,” Bokuto blurts out suddenly. “This takes me back. Somehow.”

Iwaizumi freezes. “It… takes you back.” It’s not a question, but something about it is overly cautious and tentative. But Bokuto doesn’t notice. Instead, he frowns, letting his hands trace the hilt of the blade. 

“Yeah. I don’t know, it just feels nostalgic. Like…” His frown deepens and he meets Iwaizumi’s coal-black gaze. “Like I’ve done this before.”

Iwaizumi Hajime, General of one of the main armies of Heavens, Truthseeker, starts choking on nothing on the spot. He’s hacking and coughing and beating at his chest, but he still refuses the other male’s help as he forces himself to straighten. “Why?” He finally croaks. 

Bokuto shakes his head. “I can’t explain it. It just… it just is. Can I change swords? This one is way too light. And thin. I don’t like it.”

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “You always were particular with your weapons.”

Bokuto blinks. “What?”

“Nothing. I’ll get them to change your weapon.”

A few moments later, Bokuto holds yet another blade in his hands. A _dadao._

“How can you be sure I’ll be able to fight with _this?_ ” Bokuto asks incredulously. But the fit is comfortable, as is its weight. But he has no idea how to handle it. 

“Remember what we talked about,” is all Iwaizumi offers. “I didn’t spend four hours of my day teaching you the basics of how to fight just to have you throw it all away. I’ll teach you how to fight with a _dadao,_ and then we’ll have another go. If anything, if you don’t get any better, that reflects more on me being a bad teacher than you being a bad student. Let’s begin.”

And then they do. Iwaizumi teaches him how to handle the weapon in his hands, shouts instructions, corrects his stance, and then they rinse and repeat. Again and again and again, until morning approaches. 

“Let’s have a bout,” Iwaizumi says. The hours of training have finally started to show on his face in the form of small traces of exhaustion, and Bokuto is both pumped full with energy and about to die at the same time. He can’t repress the groan that leaves his lips, but Iwaizumi doesn’t bother to chide him this time. 

He lifts his whip. “Let’s begin.”

The General is already moving before he finishes his sentence. The whip lashes out towards his eyes and, instinctively, Bokuto dodges it and lunges. The _dadao_ is a big thing, but somehow, it works, and he handles it with a practiced ease he is not accustomed to having. But he doesn’t dwell on this as he makes a jab. 

Iwaizumi steps away, then uses the pommel of his whip to jab at Bokuto’s face. He sidesteps, lunges again. At one point, Bokuto slides out from between Iwaizumi’s legs, using his blade to block the whip before stabbing at Iwaizumi. 

Naturally, the General blocks. 

When the whip coils around his blade and the pale-robed deity pulls, Bokuto is unmoved. Instead, he pulls— _hard_ —and to his and the other’s astonishment, the whip is pulled from Iwaizumi’s grip. 

It clatters to the ground, still glowing cyan with power. 

The both of them stand there, dumbfounded. Then Bokuto looks up tentatively. “... Does that mean I pass?”

Iwaizumi’s gaze hardens, but there is the slightest upward curl at the corner of his lips. “We’ll see tomorrow.”

The General doesn’t tell Bokuto that all the places he’s aimed to maim have been at vital points that he has yet to teach him.

Instead, he retrieves his whip. “Go rest,” he advises. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to train tomorrow.”

But alas, the will of the Heavens bends to no one.

**——————**

Bokuto gets about five hours of sleep in before he is abruptly woken. Akaashi is gently shaking his shoulder. “Bokuto-san,” he addresses once the other blinks his eyes open groggily. “Our backup has arrived.”

“How many?” He asks, yawning and sitting up, feeling rather touched to be included in this circle of information-giving, given how cagey the deities are with their info being spread. 

“Two,” the dark-robed deity responds. He’s already dressed. “But they’re more than enough. We’re going to welcome them.”

Bokuto nods his head and, addled with sleep, momentarily leans against Akaashi, who’s seated next to him on the bed. The dark-robed deity freezes immediately in surprise, his hands flying up to push him away, but somehow, he ends up relaxing instead. “... Bokuto-san?”

“Hm?”

“Get up.” His words are harsh, but his tone is coaxing and soft. Akaashi Keiji does not like to be touched, but for Bokuto, he seems to be making an exception. 

A pity that the exception is unaware of this fact. 

“Mmh… three more minutes.”

“ _Bokuto-san._ ”

“ _Akaashiiii…_ ”

“If you don’t get up, Bokuto-san, I am going to stand up and drag you off the bed.”

An exaggerated sigh, and the former athlete rises, stretching and reaching into his shirt to scratch his belly. Akaashi purposefully averts his gaze from the telltale signs of toned muscles as the fabric of his shirt lifts, and instead respectfully keeps his head turned as Bokuto gets dressed and ready.

“Are you done?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go!”

Akaashi dutifully heads out the door first. Bokuto follows, as usual, but bumps into the wall. 

He frowns. 

_Strange,_ he says, then looks down. He blinks. _Holy shit—I_ actually _have a shadow?_

_And I can’t pass through the wall._

_Man, that sucks._

He liked being able to pass through walls…

“Bokuto-san.”

“I’m coming!”

Not more than three minutes later, they find themselves once again in Hinata and Kageyama’s suite. There’s the sound of bellowing laughter and jokes being thrown left and right, and—

Bokuto stops. 

_No way._

He makes a break for it. Past Akaashi, whose eyes widen ever-so-slightly in surprise, as Bokuto dashes into the lounge. He stops there, his mouth hanging agape.

“No. _Fucking._ Way.”

Kuroo Tetsurou grins at the spirit, and Kozume Kenma only nods his head in acknowledgment. 

“What’s poppin’, bird brain?”

_What the_ fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLease just search up what a dadao is. It's papa blade. LMAO also yes hello welcome back kurooken how many of you saw this coming?


	10. Allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, not very happy with this chapter, but I guess I'm a little rusty :'))) oh well

* * *

_“Fuck you.”_

_“I’m not the one you should be fucking.”_

* * *

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” These are the first words to leave his lips as he stares, mouth agape and so wide that an insect might fly into his mouth as he stares, eyes round as saucers. Disbelief, shock, and something else fill Bokuto, and he’s certain the others can see that emotion in his eyes. “You’re one of them, too, aren’t you?” 

The question is rhetorical; he already knows the answer. Even so, he can’t stop himself from asking. _Am I_ actually _and_ seriously _surrounded by a bunch of non-humans or what?_

_Who’s next? Fuckin’... Tsukki?_

He might just give up at this point. The thought of Tsukishima Kei being an immortal should have been baffling, but now, resigned to the fact that so much of his company has been heavenly company, the notion of the curly-haired blond being a deity doesn’t seem so unbelievable anymore. Bokuto doesn’t know if he should be concerned with the fact that he’s so resigned or not. Either way, that doesn’t have anything to do with what’s happening in front of him right now, so the spirit forces himself back to reality. “How many of my friends are actually, y’know, _human?_ ” 

Kuroo’s smile is as devilish as it is sheepish. “A good, healthy amount, I’m sure. You just have quite a few _non-humans_ with you, that’s all.”

“I think you and I have very different definitions of _a few._ ” 

“I _did_ say _quite_ ,” Kuroo responds, almost immediately, sharp-tongued and insufferable as ever. Despite this, the both of them end up chuckling like idiots a few moments of silence after all. 

“Bokuto-san,” Kenma finally speaks up, giving the spirit a nonchalant and almost lazy wave, which Bokuto returns. The pudding-haired male opens his mouth to speak, only to stop himself short after Akaashi steps into the room. Bokuto turns around and grins. 

“Akaashi! You could have told me that you knew them.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Bokuto-san,” he begins slowly, settling down in a seat opposite to Kenma’s. “We met Kozume-san when I first picked you up.” His tone resembles that of an adult explaining something that shouldn’t be complicated at all to a child, and, unable to conjure the memory of ever running into the feline-gazed male, he frowns. 

“We did?” He asks, at the same time Kuroo croaks out a surprised “ _what._ ” 

The rooster-haired male whirls on his boyfriend. “You ran into the both of them together and you didn’t tell me?” He asks in miffed disbelief, to which Kenma rolls his eyes.

“You would have known sooner or later anyway,” is his simple reply. “And, besides. I wanted to see the look on your face when you saw them together.”

“It’s okay, Kuroo-san,” Hinata comforts comically. “We were surprised, too.”

Bokuto shakes his head. “Why do you guys always react like that, anyway? It’s just little old me and Akaashi.” He takes a seat next to the deity in question; the latter scoots to the side to give Bokuto some space to sit. Despite the fact that there are so many other empty chairs to sit on, the athlete chooses to sit next to Akaashi Keiji, and the immortal seems to have no qualms despite usually being so reserved about proximity. 

Kuroo looks like a deer caught in headlights. Probably not the right way to use the phrase, but there’s no other way to describe his expression as his gaze flicks between the two in utter and complete disbelief. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, he’s interrupted by a rough voice. All heads turn to the doorway at the sound.

“Sorry I’m late,” Iwaizumi says, scratching the back of his neck. “I was writing up some reports.” His gaze flicks hesitantly over to Bokuto and Akaashi, but he looks away just as quickly. Instead, he looks over to the two new guests and nods in acknowledgment. “Kuroo. Kenma. Good to see you two again.”

Now Kuroo _really_ chokes. “Hold—hold _on._ Why are you h—no, wait. You’re just—you’re just going to _let_ this happen? _This?_ ” Kuroo makes wide gestures at Bokuto and Akaashi. His face is almost green at this point. “Like, don’t get me wrong—this is a very _fuck yeah! I’m super happy!_ moment for them and us, but _you_ are just going to let this go? No reports? Nothing?”

Iwaizumi’s face sours. “I would if I could, but we both know what the consequences might be.”

Kuroo whips around. “So you and Akaashi…” He pauses, fumbling for words for but a moment before speaking again. “So you two are just, y’know, _together_ now, or what?” 

Bokuto tilts his head to the side, not unlike an owl. “He picked me up like, last week. So.”

Kuroo looks like he’s about to combust. “ _Last week._ ”

“Why are you so interested anyway, Kuroo-san?” Akaashi adds in nonchalantly. “It’s just Bokuto-san. He’s just another spirit with unresolved grievances. There really isn’t a need to react so wildly.” 

It’s tempting. Tempting to lash out, tell Akaashi not to say he’s _just another spirit_ . At least, not to Akaashi. He doesn’t want the deity to think of him as _just another spirit._ He wants him to think he’s—

His thoughts stop short.

_What?_ He asks himself. _What are you thinking_ now _?_

Deities, he’s tired. And he doesn’t even know of what. The same way all of these heavenly officials are speaking in circles, so, too, is he, but in his own head. He’s getting nowhere with this. It’s as frustrating as it is ridiculous. 

He swears everyone else in the room cringes at Akaashi’s choice of words as they all cast gazes of both sympathy and pity Bokuto’s way. He only stares back at the lot of them in obliviousness. So he tries to change the subject. “So you and Kenma are from the Heavens.” He starts. 

“ _I_ am,” Kuroo says. “But Kenma isn’t. He’s a demon.”

“I’m a senri,” Kenma offers, meeting Bokuto’s gaze. “The cat demon that feasts on human souls. Which I haven’t had in a very long time.” 

Kuroo huffs. “I give you enough of myself for you to not need human souls!”

Kenma raises an eyebrow. “I never said you didn’t, Tetsu.”

Bokuto’s never heard of a senri in his life, but since it’s clear that Kenma knows that and has already made an effort to explain(somewhat), he doesn’t question any further. Kuroo cuts through his train of thought after a short bout of silence. “We’re just glad to see you again, man.” 

(Bokuto doesn’t realise that all those times he’s seen them at his grave, they’ve been able to see him, too. They just didn’t interact with him at the time, because they simply couldn’t.) 

“So, anyway.” Kuroo tilts his head to the side. “Akaashi just picked you up like some sort of stray, and… that’s it? Nothing else happened?”

Bokuto frowns. “Why are we talking about this again? What do you think could have happened, dumbass?” 

The dark-haired deity turns to Iwaizumi. “So, what? Heaven doesn’t know yet, right?”

The martial god shakes his head. “No. Just me. For now, it would be best if it stayed that way.” 

Kenma nods in agreement. “It would be utter chaos if they found out. The heavens would lose it. And so would your fiance.”

Silence. Then Kuroo hurries to add, “No offense, Iwaizumi. You just… well. You know what it’s like.” A hand sheepishly rubs at the nape of his neck, paired with a smile of the same emotion. “Especially with this situation going on and everything, having them finding out would just make everything worse. And if they try to pin the blame again, then… well. I think we all know how that would turn out.”

“Not all of us,” Hinata pipes up. “Some of us have only heard of what happened. We’re not from the same generation of immortals, remember?”

Iwaizumi’s laugh is rough and bitter. “You wouldn’t want to know what it was like, Hinata. Trust me.” His gaze slides over to Bokuto and Akaashi, both who are equally mystified. “It was like Hell found its way to Earth and Heaven. We lost a lot of good people that day.” His gaze turns sad. His eyes linger on Bokuto. “... And I lost a very dear friend. And another’s still suffering from the aftermath of it. War has never been pretty, but this one… I think I can say that this was my toughest.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “And Tooru wouldn’t want to take action unless he had to. Which he does, given his position. But he definitely would prefer not to. He knew them once, too, you know.” 

Bokuto and Akaashi exchange equally confused glances, but don’t interrupt their reminiscing. It’s only then that the rest of them remember that they’re still in the room. Kuroo brings them back to the main topic. “So are you going to tell him anytime soon?”

Iwaizumi purses his lips and frowns. “I’m… thinking about it.”

Kuroo’s blink is slightly disbelieving. “But this is like a whole ‘nother workload.” 

“I know that,” Iwaizumi snaps, temper flaring. “But it just doesn’t feel right to hide it from him.”

“You’re going to have to,” Kenma offers. “Until this all blows over. Unless something else happens, in which case, we wouldn’t have a choice.”

“Let’s just hope you don’t have a crow’s mouth,” Kuroo murmurs. 

Hinata and Kageyama both let out indignant “hey!”’s upon hearing this statement. 

“Anyway,” Iwaizumi continues, settling into his seat. “Now that you’re both here, I’m assuming Hinata and Kageyama already explained our current situation.” He doesn’t bother to make it sound like a question, though Kuroo and Kenma nod anyway. “So we have to prep for a battle that will either come to us at an uncertain time and we need to know how to minimise damage and the loss of mortal lives. Any of you guys have ideas?”

Kageyama frowns. “We could try luring them elsewhere. Somehow.”

“Somehow,” Iwaizumi echoes, mildly displeased with how vague that sounds. “Okay, yeah. That’s a given. But we need to figure out the method. There’s no way they’re going to ignore the rest of the mortals in favour of some deserted place.”

“So we divert their attention.” Kenma tilts his head to the side, gaze focused on the table, eyes alert but far away all at once. “We make decoys. We set them up.” When he looks up, his gaze is eerie. “Ghouls aren’t smart. They’re operating on orders and relying on their own primal senses. And the thing about that is that primal senses, instincts, their brains, even—they can all be tricked. If humans can be led in circles, we can definitely do the same for lesser creatures. The only problem is _how._ ” 

Kuroo crosses his arms. “Well they rely on their sense of smell, right? We could work with that first.”

  
“But they have eyes,” Hinata points out. “Like they’re stupid, but they can’t be _that_ stupid, you know?” 

“So we blind them,” Kenma meets Hinata’s gaze. “We find a way to blind them completely and make them rely on their sense of smell. It will be night time, anyway. There’s no way they’ll attack in broad daylight when they’re so much more stronger at night. We can work with that. Find a way to permanently blind them, if possible.”

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “That’s impossible. There’ll be a lot of them. We can’t possibly permanently blind each of them.”

“Their eyes are sensitive,” Kenma points out, then draws a _qiankun_ pouch from Kuroo’s pocket. “If we can find a way to throw this on top of all of them, it might just work.” He reaches a hand into the pouch. When he draws it back out, there’s a sort of powder in his hands, leaking through the gaps between his fingers before it falls back into the _qiankun_ pouch in his hands. It’s like sand, but grainier, and it looks translucent, almost. Blue. Bokuto finds it vaguely familiar. “The old ways are always reliable.”

“How do we group them together, though?” Hinata frowns. “We need to find a way to get them all in one place.”

Kenma folds his hands together on his lap, the movements eerily elegant and graceful in a feline-like way. His eyes seem to glow even beneath the light. “We can cut the power of the city. A blackout, if you will.” His fingers tap against his thighs as his eyes glaze over once more. “They’ll be blinded, somewhat. We can find human-scented things and put them in one place to gather them. Then we can toss the powder.”

“How would we cut the power, though?” Kuroo frowns. “The city’s powered by multiple generators.” 

Kenma raises an eyebrow. “We can station our men at each and have them cut it out at the same time. Then they can put up a spell to ward off the humans—at least, until we’ve managed to blind and gather the ghouls in one place.”

“What if they don’t fall for it?” Iwaizumi asks. “What if one of the elders is there to direct them?”

  
Kenma tilts his head to the side. “We stick to the blackout plan. If they have any elder ghouls with them, we can make sure to pinpoint where they are and take them out in the dark first. There shouldn’t be too many of them, anyway—ghouls usually don’t have the leisure of cultivating to such a high level. At most, there will be three or four of them. But if we’re extra lucky, there won’t be any elders at all.”

Kuroo sighs. “You’re hot when you’re being all smart and dangerous.”

Kenma shoots his boyfriend a look, but fails to hide the reddening tips of his ears. The cat demon doesn’t respond to his comment, instead turning to meet Iwaizumi’s impressed and disgusted gaze. “What say you, General?”

“It’s a good plan.” Iwaizumi leans forward, nodding his head in approval. “But the only problem is that it’s only effective if we’re prepared. They could attack at any time, and we’d be none the wiser. This plan wouldn’t work if we rushed it. Or, well. It wouldn’t work _well_ unless we had some proper time to prepare.”

Kenma shakes his head. “We should at least get them to start prepping now. You guys _should_ have this powder with you, anyway. Station your men around every entry point of the city and give them something so they can send a signal. And the others should be preparing the materials. You have a map, right?” Kenma reaches forward, palms up and fingers splayed. “Give it to me. I’ll mark a few locations where I think we can group them together.”

Hinata blinks. “Do you know the city _that_ well?”

Kenma tilts his head to the side. “I’ve been here before, but, no, not exactly. But I’m operating on the assumption that places like some huge park or an open stadium or whatever are more likely to have less people, if any. We should be trying to get them to places like that. Which means I’m going to need you to brief me on some locations in Miyagi.”

Hinata and Kageyama exchange a look, then nod in affirmation. “Okay,” Hinata agrees. 

“Who _are_ you guys, really?” Bokuto blurts out, his gaze flitting between Kuroo and Kenma. “What the hell even is my friend circle?”

Silence.

Then Kuroo lets out a sheepish, boisterous laugh. “Oh, man, if only you knew.”

“There’s _more_?” Good lord, how did Bokuto get here? It’s just one mind-blowing discovery after another. It’s starting to get tiring.

“Yep.” Kuroo grins. “But I won’t tell you. The suspense is important, after all. Part of the experience, you catch my drift?”

_Yes, but no. No. Nope._

“And I’m one of the guardian deities of Tokyo,” Kuroo relents, shortly after. “Kenma’s just a regular, cute little senri. He feeds on my spiritual energy when he really needs to, but he can survive without it or human souls.”

_My friends are all fucked and so am I._

Kenma turns back to Iwaizumi. “If you’ve any input, General, now would be a good time to start talking.”

“Kuroo-san,” Akaashi calls after Iwaizumi, Kenma, Kageyama and Hinata have started to discuss the plan in more detail. “Can we talk?” 

Kuroo blinks, then rises from his seat. Bokuto watches them go, but doesn’t comment on it, instead turning his attention to the four people discussing the plan. A part of him itches to give some insight, some input, but for some reason, he can’t muster anything out. 

On the other end, Kuroo and Akaashi find a comfortable, private spot, and the former finds himself speaking first. “... Am I in trouble or something?” 

Akaashi barks out a surprised, soft chuckle. “No, Kuroo-san. I just wanted to ask you a few things is all.” 

He blinks. “Uh, okay. Shoot, then.”

Akaashi’s gaze is contemplative. “You’re all hiding something from me. About Bokuto-san.”

Kuroo nearly chokes on his own saliva. It throws him into a coughing fit right after, and he’s struggling to speak in between each ragged inhale and the next as he tries to stop his hacking. “What—” _cough_ “—What are you talking a—” _cough_ “—about?” _Cough cough cough._ As if he isn’t being obvious enough already. Mentally, he gives himself a hard slap. _Oh, you fucking idiot, what are you_ doing?

Akaashi’s gaze is mildly amused. “You alright there, Kuroo-san?”

“I’m fine,” he says raspily, straightening. Then he clears his throat, smoothens his nonexistent, ruffled feathers. “I’m fine.” 

“Right,” comes the dry reply. 

Silence. It’s a little awkward. 

Then Kuroo breaks it, frowning, feigning nonchalance and composure as he fights against the rapid beating of his immortal heart. “Why are you asking, anyway? You’re not usually the type to pry about these sorts of things.”

“I’m not,” Akaashi agrees, his fingers finding each other as he starts to play with them. “But this involves me, and everyone has been acting weird about it. I was human once, too, you know. Just because I’m not as curious as I once was doesn’t mean it’s not there. It gets pretty tiring after the fifth time someone has to do a double take and ask me what I’m doing with Bokuto-san at my side.” 

_Oh, yeah. I guess I get that._

Kuroo clears his throat awkwardly, shifting his weight from side to side. “It’s… complicated.” He sighs, then runs a hand through his messy, dark hair. “I would tell you if I could, Akaashi, seriously. But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“There are consequences for speaking of things like this. Things that shouldn’t be said. Especially not to you.”

He frowns. “I… I don’t understand. Why are there consequences? Why am I being left out _again_?”

The guilt drives itself home like a hot knife through butter, cutting right through Kuroo’s skin and embedding itself in his ever-beating heart. 

“There are consequences _because_ it’s dangerous, Akaashi,” Kuroo replies, fighting down the guilt. “You’re smart enough to know that. I’m sure you can ask your friends from the Sakurai clan all about it.” _If they told you anything about it, that is._

“So they’re in on it, too, right?” Akaashi’s tone is dry, his demeanour stiffening, frosting over. “About this. They reacted the same way, too. Even Beom neglected to say anything.”

Kuroo cringes. “Right. And that’s because he’s already got a target on his back. Heaven is practically _waiting_ for him to make a mistake so they can detain and execute him. It makes sense that he’s exercising _some_ caution when the people up top want his head on a pike.” 

Akaashi doesn’t reply. His gaze remains focused on Kuroo, expectant, knowing the latter has more to say. 

“Your best bet is Sakurai Shun,” Kuroo finally relents. “But he’s a heavenly official, too. A Sakurai. He’d be kept under close watch. And, yeah, I mentioned Beom, but I doubt he knows everything.” He clasps hands together, purses his lips. “He isn’t from the same generation. What he might know is limited. And not enough. For you, anyway.” 

Akaashi blows out a frustrated breath. “Isn’t that how it always is? There’s always a ‘but’ when it comes to these things.” His gaze is downcast, eyebrows knitted together in thought. “... I just want to understand what’s happening.”

_Me too, buddy, me too._

“You could try asking Junya,” Kuroo offers finally. “You know him, right? The kitsune.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Junya?”

“Yeah. He’s probably older than all of us, and he was definitely there when the war happened. And he isn’t loyal to anyone.” Kuroo holds up his fingers, and, as he speaks, he puts them down one by one. “He’s morally grey, he doesn’t have to choose sides, he knows everything, and he’s reliable when it comes to information. He isn’t tied down by Heaven’s laws, either, since we’re the ones who visit him for intel on more than one occasion. He’s your best bet.”

_Unless Heaven got to him first._

Akaashi’s gaze is contemplative. Kuroo speaks up again before the former can say anything else. “I guess the only downside is that his information always comes with a price.” 

Kuroo remembers the few times he’s met the kitsune. White hair cascading down his broad shoulders, long lashes, golden eyes, paired with red markings at his cheek and between his brows, his gaze amused, arrogant, seductive and dangerous all at once. His robes, haphazardly worn, consist of only one layer, and the top is open, putting his chest on full display as he lounges on his seat. Nine tails spread behind him, but he has the ability to hide those away. His figure is slender and slim—and, well, in other words, he’s a feast for the eyes, with a voice for the ears. Deep and dark and smooth. “Kuroo Tetsurou,” he’d drawled. “I know what you want to know. And I also know what you want, what you need.” He’d stood up, then, and Kuroo had been surprised, because they were almost the same height. Junya’s angular phoenix eyes are always curled upwards, giving one the impression of a constantly smiling man. And, at the time, Kuroo thought he looked like he was mocking him. “But enough of that. What will you offer in exchange for what you came here for?”

Honestly? Talking to Junya was like having straight up sex with some enigmatic stranger. Dangerous. And all for a piece of information. 

Kuroo hadn’t known Kenma then. He supposes he’s lucky his first meeting with Junya left him bankrupt; after all, the fox demon has been known to exchange information with information worth as much as the one being asked for. 

Among other things.

  
  


“Oh.” Akaashi blinks, as though suddenly remembering something. “Right. I forgot you people actually have to pay him back for information.”

Kuroo blinks. “Wait. What?”

“I don’t…” Akaashi blinks again, then looks away, a little embarrassed. “Junya doesn’t let me repay him for information. I get mine for free, basically.” 

Kuroo nearly starts coughing out blood. “He _what?_ He _does_ that?”

Akaashi shrugs. “Apparently. He said he did it for someone else before me, so. I’m not the first.”

“But _why?_ ”

Akaashi’s gaze is helpless. “Kuroo-san, I wish I had an answer, but I don’t. He just won’t accept payment from me.”

The official runs a hand over his face, letting out an exasperated groan. “‘Go ask Junya for information,’, they said. ‘It’ll be fine,’ they said. _I nearly went broke after the first time I met him._ ”

Akaashi blinks. “But you still go to him for information, right?”

“Yeah. For the price of my pockets or my dignity.”

Akaashi lets out a small laugh. “I can see that happening.”

“Hey!”

Silence falls once more. Kuroo folds his arms, leans against the wall. Then he tilts his head to the side and asks, “So? What are you gonna do?”

“Ask him, probably.” Akaashi blows out a sigh. “That’s if the Heavens haven’t already gotten to him. You said he wasn’t on anyone’s side. But he _has_ sides. He joins them temporarily and only for a certain price. Who knows what the heavens have offered him?”

“Would he really have the balls to ask something from Heaven in exchange for his service?” 

Akaashi meets Kuroo’s gaze steadily. “You tell me.”

And the funny thing is, Kuroo can’t say Junya doesn’t. 

**______**

Bokuto lights up like a lightbulb the moment Kuroo and Akaashi enter his field of vision. He jumps up and bounds over, relieved to have an excuse to peel away from the other three strategizing around the table. “You’re back!” He cries. “Oh, thank fuck. My brain cells can’t handle all the strat they’re talking about—I feel like I’m about to explode.” And, boy, does he look the part. 

“So what did you guys talk about?” Bokuto asks, tilting his head to the side and settling down next to Akaashi when they sit down. “Seemed really serious if you ask me. Feels bad to be left out, man.” He tosses Kuroo a look. “You’re breakin’ the bro code by keeping secrets, you know.”

Kuroo huffs indignantly, puffing out his chest in mock offense. “Oi! What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bokuto sticks out his tongue(he’s mentally regressing already and it hasn’t even been two hours yet). “I said what I said, rooster bitch.”

Kenma lets out a small ‘pft’. 

Akaashi looks aghast and amused at the same time. 

Kuroo looks like he’s about to flip a table. “You fucking asshole.”

“You love me,” Bokuto shoots back, his tone singsong and lilting as he shoots a wink at the man who looks like he’s ready to punch him. Hinata and Kageyama are watching this like they’re watching a movie, and Iwaizumi’s adopted a resting bitch face somewhere along the way. 

Kuroo mumbles something beneath his breath, but doesn’t deny. So Bokuto grins smugly, knowing that the win is his, before he turns back to Akaashi. “So? What happened back there?”

“Your innocent ears wouldn’t be able to handle it, Kou,” Kuroo coos back smugly. “So we won’t tell you anything for the sake of your little ears.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not the one you should be fucking.”

Silence.

Kuroo realises his mistake too late. “Oh, shit, hold up—”

“Anyway,” Iwaizumi cuts in, looking like he’s torn between the urge to laugh and/or cry. “We don’t have much time left before the attack, and Bokuto still can’t exactly hold if he’s in an intense fight for too long. We need to keep smoothing out the edges of this strategy or we’re all gonna be fucked.” 

“I told some of my underlings to gather here ASAP before we came here,” Kuroo offers. “I don’t know when they’ll be here, but they’re all heavenly officials.” 

“I tried reaching out to Shun and Jae,” Akaashi offers, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t know if they’ll be able to make it, though.”

Kuroo’s expression is indignant. “Why didn’t you tell me this when we were _literally_ just talking about them?”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “If I said it in front of you, I’d have to repeat it.”

“You guys were talking about Shun and Jae?” Bokuto frowns, confused. “Why would you need to bring them up in a conversation?”

Akaashi exhales through his nose. “I’ll fill you in later, Bokuto-san.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

Silence. Then—“He wants to fight.” Iwaizumi speaks up from his spot, eyeing Bokuto, his gaze calculative and cautious. “Bokuto, I mean.”

The spirit cringes. “It was just an offer…”

But no one is ridiculing him like he expects them to, despite never having fought anyone or anything before in his life until he’d died. No, they’re giving him an odd look. Except for Akaashi, who frowns and turns to the ex-athlete, tilting his head to the side as he asks, “Why? Would you be able to hold out?”

He puffs up a little indignantly at the question. “Hey!” He says. “I just—It just feels like I should. Fight, I mean.” It’s like he’s itching to swing his blade, itching to feel the thrill of the battle. He doesn’t quite understand it himself, but it feels a little like calls to like. Except that Bokuto has never been fond of bloodshed. Adrenaline? Sure. The thrill and rush of action? Hell yeah. But violence and bloodshed… No, he can’t see himself ever enjoying that. 

But it feels like he belongs on the battlefield, and he can’t understand why. 

Akaashi’s gaze is different this time. It’s like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle, except he doesn’t have all the pieces. Bokuto squirms a little under it, though he can’t figure out why. _Does he think I’m onto something?_ Because he definitely isn’t. Heck, ever since his death, he’s just been hit with questions about himself left and right. Questions that just keep coming. Questions he doesn’t have any damn answers to and wishes he does. It’s frustrating and he wishes he knew the answers, but damn, this shit ain’t simple. 

Which should be ridiculous, because, well—they’re about _him._

Strange how he doesn’t know himself as well as he should. 

Akaashi sighs in defeat after a long bout of painful, heavy silence(on Bokuto’s end, at least). “I’ll stick by him and make sure he doesn’t get hurt,” the immortal relents, tearing his calculative gaze away and allowing Bokuto to breathe out a breath of relief. 

This is good. _This is good._ But he doesn’t even know how he’s going to fend for himself. 

“They’re probably not going to come,” Akaashi speaks up, drawing their attention. “Shun and Jae, I mean. Beom said earlier that they wouldn’t involve themselves in this. I just asked for the sake of it.” A gesture of trust and one that shows how desperate they are for help. The dark-robed deity pulls out a pouch from his robes, settling it on the table. “Shun sent me some poison darts just in case. I got them just before Kuroo-san and Kenma-san arrived.”

Kuroo picks up the pouch and peeks in, then barks out a laugh. “That’s some nasty poison alright. He made those himself?” 

Akaashi tilts his head to the side, but Kenma answers for him. “When has Sakurai Shun ever used poisons made by another’s hand?”

“Bokuto,” Iwaizumi speaks up. “You should be careful. On the battlefield, I mean. You’re solid now.”

“He is?” Kageyama blinks, turning to Bokuto to look at him properly. “Oh. He is.” 

Hinata snickers. “Idiot.”

“Dumbass.”

“You love me.”

“... I got nothin’ to say to that.”

“I’ll be fighting with Akaashi, though.” Bokuto says. “It should be fine, right?”

Iwaizumi’s gaze is a little pained, as is Kuroo’s. Kenma watches on in interest, and Kageyama and Hinata fall silent as the General replies, “Yeah. Or it could be a recipe for disaster in the long run.”

Bokuto frowns. “Why?”

The General averts his gaze to the floor, eyebrows furrowed. 

“If only you knew.”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Bokuto Koutarou never knows. 

**——————**

“This is either going to be really good,” Kuroo begins, after everyone has left save for Kenma and Iwaizumi. “Or really, _really_ fucking bad.”

Iwaizumi scoffs. “Which part? The promise of a new war between deities and demons, or the fact that Bokuto and Akaashi not only met, but are going to fight together on the same battlefield again?”

“Both.” Comes Kenma’s reply, his gaze on the door that the others had just left through. His arms are crossed, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes. Kageyama and Hinata had gone elsewhere to make preparations for the battle, and Akaashi and Bokuto had gone to their room to rest. “Kuroo tried to stop Bokuto. Before he died.”

Kuroo shakes his head. “It didn’t work. Never does. Same thing every time.”

Iwaizumi fiddles with the whip at his hip. “That’s how it works.”

The other deity slams a fist on the table, runs a hand through his unruly hair. Then he says, “I fucking know that. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to at least _try._ I owe that much to him, at least.”

Silence. 

  
“He hasn’t changed a bit,” is what leaves Iwaizumi’s lips, his words soft. “He’s still… _Bokuto._ ”

“I think that him meeting Akaashi is his tipping point,” Kenma says quietly. “He’s starting to act more and more like the one we knew. Not to say he didn’t already, but some things…”

“He’s probably only going to keep remembering, at this point.” Iwaizumi taps his fingers on the table. “He beat me in battle earlier. Once. I don’t know if that’s a spur-of-the-moment thing or not, but if it is, we’re going to have to hope he remembers how it should feel. The battle won’t be easy.” 

“Then what about Akaashi?” Kuroo sighs and then groans, frustrated. “This is already a mess. And the fighting hasn’t even started yet.”

Iwaizumi casts his gaze skyward. 

“We’re going to just have to hope for the best. And keep their meeting under wraps for as long as we can for now.”

_Or it’ll be them against the world with the skies at their heels again, and we won’t be able to stop it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo hi yes i'm back!!! IT'S BEEN A FEW WEEKS HOW IS EVERYONE DOING. I'M STILL ADJUSTING TO GETTING BACK INTO THIS MESS OF A STORY AND I HIGHKEY FORGOT HOW DRAINING IT CAN BE TO PLOT. I HOPE YOU GUYS ARE HAPPY WITH THIS(BC IM NOT)
> 
> on another note, next chapter will mark the end of the first arc!!! Tq for sticking with me !!!


	11. (I) The First Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I exist here have this chapter

* * *

_“Don’t. Touch me,” Akaashi interrupts, slowly lowering his hand as he clenches it. His knuckles are white, his eyes closed, body trembling. “Don’t.”_

* * *

Bokuto knows it’s a dream when he opens his eyes to the unfamiliar surroundings of a bygone time. Old-fashioned floors, a bed, snuffed out candles with melted wax at the bases as someone in old-fashioned military garb frantically rushes into the room. “General!” He huffs, then, remembering his position, he hurries to stand at attention, fist poised before his heart in a dutiful salute. “General, His Majesty calls for your presence.”

Bokuto blinks once, then twice, trying to shake the sleep from his mind as he runs a hand through his hair. “His Majesty? What for?”

“Not His Majesty,” another voice cuts in, smooth as porcelain, cool as ice. Both sets of eyes turn to face the newcomer who slides into the room easily with little but a small sound, barely audible. “His head eunuch will be passing the message in his stead. He _is_ royalty, after all.” Akaashi Keiji tilts his head to the side, gunmetal-blue cold against the moon’s dim light. “He has oh-so- _many_ deeds to attend to.”

Bokuto tries to keep the sour look from his face. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Akaashi coolly meets his gaze, raising an eyebrow as he tilts his head to the side with crossed arms as he leans against the wall. “You tell me, _General._ ”

The soldier gulps, tentatively stepping between the two before they set themselves aflame. “General, Akaashi-dono—he merely wishes to assign a task to the both of you. Perhaps it would be wiser to… well, listen to him before you both start fighting?” His next word hangs in the air despite his silence. _Again._

The tension is thick and heavy. Bokuto’s gaze is hot as fire as he glowers at the assassin in his room, and Akaashi’s is all cool ice, cold enough to induce frostbite as he meets his gaze apathetically. One might feel sorry for the soldier caught between the crossfire. “Uh, General…?”

He throws up his hands in exasperation, crawling out of bed. _I want my sleeeeeppp._ “Fine, fine. Away with the both of you.” He throws a meaningful glance at Akaashi. “Unless you _want_ to see me get dressed.” His lips curl into a smug smirk when he sees the way the assassin sputters, indignantly and haughtily pushing himself off the wall as he begins to leave. 

He pauses before the doorway. Then, softly, his tone acrid and icy, he says, “Who would want to watch an over-built bull undress? You overestimate yourself.”

Akaashi is grateful for the dark.

No one can see the redness of his ears when he leaves.

**——————**

Bokuto is surprised to see Akaashi still waiting outside his door. He’s outside, in the courtyard, porcelain face turned upwards toward the moon. Its light is gentle, cascades over his dark hair, his dark robes, brings the delicate but sharp features of his face into relief. He is almost ethereal, with his sleeves billowing, expression serene. He is almost empyreal. Inhuman. 

Beautiful, but terrible.

And terribly beautiful.

Bokuto tears his gaze away, clearing his throat. Akaashi doesn’t react; instead, he closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath. When he turns around, gone is the serenity, replaced by emotionless, harsh cold. “Done? Took you awhile.”

The general smiles back condescendingly. “Impatience is unbefitting of an assassin.”

The other scoffs, turning to lead the way. “I am not on duty. What do I care about how I should act if I am not working?”

Bokuto notices the way the assassin grimaces in pain as he almost slips, the clumsy act uncharacteristic. Naturally, he reaches an arm out to help him; large hands close around a deceitfully delicate wrist as Akaashi straightens. The general’s words are soft, but full of silent fire. “They went for you again, didn’t they?” Rough hands carefully, tentatively pull back long, dark sleeves in search of bruises or wounds or _anything_ that might hint at assault on the assassin again. The thought of his men doing such vulgar things leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. And to think that Akaashi still refuses to tell him who they are. But where are the wounds? 

The assassin winces when Bokuto’s rough hands pass over a particular area. He pauses, then presses down again, watching as the younger’s cold mask shatters. A small gasp of pain reaches his ears and Akaashi moves his arm away abruptly. Bokuto lets him go, voice hoarse as he says, “That’s on your joint. Why can’t I see the bruise?” 

Silence. 

Bokuto frowns and glances down at his hand, rubbing his fingers together, pausing when he realises something. 

Powder. 

He’s covering them up. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto starts slowly. The younger steps away, keeps going, nimbly avoiding the general’s seeking hand. He refuses to stop. “ _Akaashi._ ”

“Leave it, General,” he hisses. “You can’t do anything about it anyway. Just leave it.” He shakes his arm, lets the sleeve fall to cover up his already hidden wound. “It is none of your business.”

“But they are _my_ men. That _makes_ it my business.”

Akaashi whirls on him, eyes ablaze with cold fire. “What am I supposed to tell you?” He hisses quietly, voice cutting through the wind like a hot knife through butter as he stalks forward. He throws out an arm, gesturing to the emptiness around them. “‘General, your men assaulted me today and nearly took my virginity. General, they pinned me down and stripped me and beat me until I was black and blue, choked me so I couldn’t call for help. General, I had to struggle against seven men, nearly naked, as they touched me in places I wish they didn’t and beat me when I didn’t cooperate. Oh, _General,_ they called me such filthy names.’” He scoffs, biting out a bitter laugh. “‘ _General_ , I’ve had to borrow make-up from the attendants of the palace to cover my wounds. _General_ , I daren’t seek the doctor for fear of word spreading.’” He steps back, seething. “ _No_. I don’t think I will.”

Bokuto’s skin crawls. “Those are _my_ men **—** ”

“Sure they are,” comes the icy reply. “But if I am to tell you who they are, if you were to make an example of them, what if they twisted your words? Then rumours would spread, and the respect you hold would be lost. And then your title would only be in name as the rest of the kingdom slanders you.” Akaashi turns. “No. I don’t think I will tell you. For your sake moreso than mine.” The last sentence comes out quietly, a small admission. 

“I know someone that can heal your wounds,” Bokuto tries, catching up to assassin, keeping pace. “He isn’t a part of the army. He doesn’t work here. No strings attached.”

A scoff. “I thought you hated me.”

A pause. “I do. Sort of,” Bokuto begins thoughtfully. “But I don’t want you hurt because of my men. That means you’re hurt because of _me._ ”

“That defeats the whole purpose of hate, then, doesn’t it?”

Bokuto frowns, tilts his head to the side. “It does?”

Akaashi sighs through his nose, but he doesn’t refuse Bokuto’s offer. So the general continues talking. “So is that a yes?”

“... Fine.”

They walk on in silence for a few moments more. It’s only before they have to enter the chamber to meet with the eunuch that Bokuto says, “I might hate you now, but remember this—that can always change if you prove me wrong.”

**——————**

“General!” The eunuch cries, a small thing as he ambles forward. He is almost thirty, his hair pulled into a bun behind his head as he smiles amicably. He offers a tentative nod Akaashi’s way. “I do apologise for calling for you both at such a late hour, and on such short notice!” He bows apologetically, hand on his chest, another poised behind his back. “We only received the news not too long ago, you see.”

Bokuto smiles charmingly, broad and bright. “Don’t worry about it! I mean, can’t say I’m not sleepy at all, but—” he laughs and shrugs “—guess it’s what I signed up for. What’s the situation?”

The eunuch sighs, pulling a piece of parchment from his sleeves, clearing his throat as he reads. “According to our intel, there is an enemy camp from Dong He—” here, his eyes briefly flash to Akaashi, who steadily and coolly meets his gaze, before he looks away to continue “—and we suspect that they’re planning something. His Majesty wants the both of you to work together to infiltrate the camp and collect any important documents and wipe it out without alerting any of them. Bring the important ones back alive so we can question them.”

Bokuto frowns. “I’m a—no, I’m _the_ General of the Imperial Army. Why am _I_ doing this? Am I not more suited for the battlefield?”

Akaashi raises a bemused eyebrow. “General,” he begins slowly, as though he is humouring a child. “What makes you think being a General makes you any different? Are you not a citizen of this country? You’re still a soldier.” He tilts his head to the side. “You _do_ understand that being a general doesn’t mean you are to fight and control your army _only_ , right? And for the record, I don’t want to work with an airhead either.”

“Hey!” Bokuto whirls on him. “Airheads don’t get to my position by being airheads!” 

An amused smirk tugs at the corner of Akaashi’s lips as he shrugs and looks away, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “Sure.”

_He’s mocking me._

The eunuch watches their back and forth with unbridled amusement, his expression mixed, but he laughs all the same. “I see that the both of you are getting along well?”

“Are we?” Akaashi asks sceptically, raising an eyebrow. 

Bokuto is about to speak before the eunuch cuts in, unwilling to listen to another round of banter. “Alright, alright! Off with the both of you. The Emperor wants this matter settled as quickly as possible, so off with you. Here are the directions to the camp.” He shoves a scroll into Bokuto’s hands before he waves them off. 

The assassin and general exchange a glance. 

And then they’re off.

**——————**

“You walk so _noisily,_ ” Akaashi comments softly as they amble through the greenery in search of the camp. They should be near; if they’ve followed the directions correctly, they should be able to see it very soon. Because if they don’t, the past forty minutes of traversing through this forest and cutting down branches and jumping over bushes would be in vain. “Do they not teach you how to soft-shoe in the military?”

“I wasn’t trained to be an assassin,” he bites back gruffly, to which Akaashi doesn’t respond. Bokuto watches the way he moves, looking for any signs of any other wounds apart from the one on the joint of his arm that the male had found earlier. It’s all occasional winces and small pauses, almost unnoticeable unless you know what you’re looking for(but even then, Bokuto misses it). When he pushes a branch aside with his foot and it snaps back into place, slapping his ankle, Akaashi winces, pulls back slightly before huffing and moving forward. 

Akaashi Keiji is very good at being quiet. 

A part of Bokuto wishes he wasn’t. 

He wants to _help._

He knows what it’s like to be alone. 

An arm shoots out, halting Bokuto in his tracks. His eyes widen as he’s forced to come to an abrupt stop, and he’s about to question Akaashi before the assassin presses his hand to Bokuto’s lips, shaking his head as he holds up a finger to his own thin lips. “Quiet,” he says, then slowly removes his hand. “We’re here.” He gestures to the side, and Bokuto sees three guards patrolling the area. 

It’s a big camp. Bigger than one would think, and Bokuto is equally impressed and horrified. There are soldiers training somewhere far off(Bokuto can hear the sounds of metal clashing, the grunts of soldiers as their peers land a particularly painful hit) while others patrol the area, eat. Everything is as normal, except for the fact that this camp doesn’t belong to Yao Long—no, it belongs to Dong He. 

Akaashi’s eyes coolly scan the area, as though he doesn’t recognise a single person in the camp, despite probably growing up with them. Whether he’d trained with them willingly, Bokuto can’t tell. 

“Follow me,” he says finally, already moving through the greenery, footsteps silent. Bokuto suddenly wishes he learned how to pussyfoot, because this isn’t going to be as easy as the assassin makes it out to be. “I think I know where we can get in.”

It’s too dark to see(save for the lights coming from the camp, which is how they know they’re there), and Bokuto can’t use any of his talismans when they’re trying to sneak through this fucking place. But he can _hardly hear_ the assassin; there aren’t even any crunching leaves, any snapping twigs. It’s eerie and it’s like he’s not even there. In fact, Bokuto has to call out a few times, in strained whispers, only to receive a hiss on the other end. “But I can’t _hear_ you,” he retorts. 

Akaashi sighs, and then there’s the faint sound of rustling and tearing. Something closes around his finger; a piece of cloth, from the feel of it. “What—”

“Just tie it around your wrist. I’ll pull if you’re being too noisy or if you’re going in the wrong direction,” Akaashi quips brusquely, wrapping the rest of the cloth around his palm and securing a grip on it(though Bokuto can’t see him doing that). Miffed, the general obeys his command, tying the cloth around his wrist.

“This from your sleeve?” He asks, the words leaving him before he can think better of them. It’s unwise to have conversation when they’re doing something like this, he knows, but he really can’t help it sometimes. He just speaks before he thinks. 

Akaashi exhales through his nose, probably exasperated by Bokuto’s move. “No,” he deadpans. “They’re from my trousers. Easier to rip them off that way.”

Bokuto is about to say something before he realises how the assassin’s words sound. It’s apparent that they realise at the same time, too, because the other quickly says, “Wait. Wait, not like tha—you get what I mean. I’m not going to explain myself.” He huffs at the end of his sentence grousily, something that greatly amuses the general. He’s about to open his mouth and make a smug little jab before something snaps beneath his feet and the duo freeze immediately. 

Footsteps; not theirs. Slow, orderly, like a patrolling guard. Patrolling _guards._

They exchange a glance. Then they duck down.

“... don’t get it,” one of them complains. “Why _do_ we have to do patrols anyway? The others get to eat and sleep and we’re stuck patrolling the entire perimeter until daybreak. How much longer do we have to wait? Why are we even stationed here to begin with?”

The other one, a girl, says, “This land is untouched by the people of Yao Long. It is rich in natural resources, good for mining. And here, we can intercept outgoing information. There is word that this kingdom has started to use this road to send out their messengers. We are simply waiting, I think. For the right thing to take from them before we retreat.” Her tone is haughty, dutiful, back perfectly straight. Naturally, they’re both dressed in the signature royal blue and white. The emblem—a bow pulled taut, an arrow nocked, set against a roaring wave—hangs from a tablet on their hips, with characters written beneath them, presumably their names. “It may help us win the war.”

“I’m just here to fill up my mandatory enlistment,” the male guard replies, rolling his eyes. “Nothing ever happens to small fry like us, anyway. They just put us out to the less spicy places and we just have to sit still and look pretty in our fancy armour and uniforms.”

The woman sighs. “You should care more. It’s your country. And, for the record, this station _is_ important. I just told you what it was for—”

Bokuto shifts his weight. Beneath him, a twig snaps. He freezes. Akaashi whips over to look at him so fast the general is surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. Nonetheless, they both hold their breaths. 

_Oh, deities._

“What was that?” The woman asks, hand already on her hip, fingers closing around the hilt of a sword. “You _did_ hear it, right? Over the sound of your complaining?”

“Aw, what the hell?” The guy says, reaching for the spear on his back. “Low blow. And, for the record, _yes,_ I _did_ hear it.” The guard steps forward, leaning out, squinting into the dark of the forest. “Think it could just be an animal?”

“Maybe,” the woman responds tightly. “Or it could be spies. We should check to make sure. Just in case.”

“Do we _have_ to?”

“I know children with more balls than you. If you’re not going to, then stay here. _I_ will be the man and check, so you can be a crybaby here,” she quips easily, leaving the male guard absolutely flabbergasted. Bokuto might have laughed if not for the fact that the lady’s walking back to retrieve a torch. He’s about to move, to say something, when he hears a familiar voice whisper in his ear. Slow and quiet. 

“We can knock her out,” Akaashi says, breath gently fanning Bokuto’s ear, sending little shivers down his spine. He swears internally. _Oh shit._ “Knock her out, and then the guard. There’s no one else around and it’s too dark to see. If we can tie them up somewhere and set down a barrier quietly, the people in this camp would be none-the-wiser. At least until daybreak.” He’s speaking quickly, too, despite his calm tone. “Did you bring your _qiankun_ pouch? Is there a rope in it?” 

“We’re about to find out,” Bokuto mumbles, shaking himself by the shoulders mentally as he digs through his pockets. _Focus, dammit,_ he snaps. _Get in the zone! You’re on a mission right now, soldier! Hellooo!_ “Here.” It’s a little worn, likely unused for a long time. Bokuto doesn’t even remember _why_ he has that on him. Maybe it was for training. Or… something. “It’s not in good shape, though.”

“That’s fine. Be quiet.” Akaashi grabs the fabric tying them together and pulls him further into the dark. He stumbles backwards, but miraculously doesn’t step on any crunchy leaves or snapping twigs. Maybe it’s because Akaashi’s frantically pulling him in a specific pattern so he doesn’t fuck it up. 

The lady trudges through without even bothering to hide her footsteps. Next to Bokuto, Akaashi tenses, tilts his head to the side. The general hears the assassin mumble, quietly, beneath his breath, “They should have _taught_ you that walking like that alerts your enemies.” And then he looks over and nods at Bokuto, and before the latter can react, the assassin is gone from his side. Moving forward, weaving between trees as quiet as ever before he rises behind the lady and brings his hands up, forming a plane, before he hits her in specific places in a specific manner until she sways and falls over by his feet. Akaashi doesn’t even bother to cushion her fall. The loud _thump_ reminds Bokuto to move. 

“What the—” The guard doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Bokuto steps out for but a millisecond into the light before he pulls him back in, knocking him out with a quick hit to the back of his neck. He goes limp, forcing Bokuto to catch him. 

“Here,” Akaashi says, dragging the lady guard along. He drops her in a clearing(not really, since it’s covered with bits and pieces of greenery and surrounded by dark, looming trees) before gesturing for Bokuto to follow suit. Which he does. 

“So?” He asks. “What now?”

“The rope,” Akaashi replies, sticking his hand out. He makes quick work of the two by tying them together. And then he takes out his _own qiankun_ pouch, plants a few talismans on the ground, before he chants an incantation below his breath, fingers curled into a seal. First, the light is cold blue, dim and brief, as a circle draws itself between the laid-down talismans. And when it disappears, the couple's still _there,_ but… they’re not. Bokuto blinks. He can’t see them if he’s looking straight on, but he can see the faintest outlines of their figures if he looks out of the corner of his eye. 

“What did you do? What kind of spell was that?”

“They’re unnoticeable now,” Akaashi says, brushing imaginary lint from the shoulders of his robe. “It’ll last till daybreak. Let’s keep going.”

Akaashi leaves before Bokuto can even _ask_ where and how he came to learn such a spell, but, then again, Dong He is well known for its oddities—especially when it comes to obscure spells like these. Not invisibility, but _unnoticeability._ The general can’t help but admire both the skill of its wielder and the utter genius of the spell. But.. 

“Would the spell wear off if they started yelling?” He asks quietly, coming up next to the assassin, easily keeping pace. 

“Put a silencing spell on them. Now be quiet.” 

Bokuto huffs indignantly. He’s about to quip, say something clever or whatever, when the other slips out of the shadows and knocks out another guard on duty, dragging them someplace else before rushing into the camp, crouching behind a tent before looking over expectantly, all in one smooth breath, as though he’s used to it. And he probably is. Bokuto is left to stand there(rather dumbly, one might observe) before he comes back to his senses and dashes in. “You could have _told_ me! A warning would be nice,” he huffs, pouting, to which the other doesn’t respond. Instead, he’s scanning the camp.

“It’s too dark,” he says, irritated. “I can’t count everyone. How quickly can you take down an armoured enemy empty-handed?” 

“Wh—”

Akaashi dashes out once. When did he even untie the cloth hanging around his wrist? The one that’s supposed to keep them together? There’s the sound of scuffling, a soft squeak of surprise and indignation, then someone being hit, but no _thump_ of a falling body. Bokuto steps out, alarmed, only to see the assassin holding an unconscious guard. “That’s three,” he says, dragging the guard to toss him into the bushes. “He didn’t see my face. We won’t be able to take down this camp, so we’re going to have to make amendments. But I think I know where the info will be kept.” The dark-haired male brushes imaginary lint from his robes, expression _just_ a little cheeky as he tilts his head to the side, corners of his lips pulled up _just_ so that Bokuto can tell he’s smiling. “You should try and keep up, General.” 

He whirls away before the golden-eyed male can protest, swiftly weaving through the camp. Bokuto is forced to suck it up and follow in his footsteps. Somehow, they make it in unnoticed. 

The main tent is fucking huge. Round and tall, colours dark. Akaashi sighs beneath his breath, murmuring, “Always a flair for the dramatic, these people.” He doesn’t wait for Bokuto. He slips in as quickly as possible and the general is forced to wait a few more moments for guards to pass before he, too, walks in. They can’t slip through the bottom when it’s all pinned down. 

The inside is(thankfully) empty, with a bed on the side, a wooden table in the middle, lamps perched throughout. A few wooden poles are set in place to support the shape of the tent. The floor is carpeted in animal fur. Bare, in a sense, but also screaming of wealth. Boxes are stacked in various directions, no doubt containing food. A tapestry hangs on a carved, wooden board set behind the table, of flowing waters and flowers and the moon. 

As should be expected of a trading country. 

Akaashi shifts his weight. “No hiding spots,” he mutters. “Nowhere to go if someone comes in. I don’t like this.”

“What about the boxes? Spells?” 

“My seals are limited. I don’t want to use any more than I have to when I’m not even the one making them. We could try with the boxes, but there would barely be enough space for the both of us. It’s risky. We’d be…” Akaashi pauses. “Nevermind. Let’s just look for what we need and get out of here.” 

The assassin walks forward, movements quick and brisk, sifting first through various papers. Bokuto steps forward, too, but pauses upon seeing the words written on paper. “Um,” he starts sheepishly. “I can’t read the native language…”

Akaashi blinks. “Oh. Oh, right.” He blows out a breath, then shoves a piece of parchment rather unceremoniously into Bokuto’s empty hands. “Fine. Do you see this seal?” Pale fingers point to a stamp sealed in dark blue; a flower of some sort set against three lines for flowing water, curving upwards and inwards. “Crabapple blossoms for the first emperor’s favourite flower, and because it blooms in spring. It’s the symbol for imperial orders, or anything that comes from the court. We’re looking for these. The ones in red are orders sent directly from His Excellency. You find any more of these, you give them to me, and I’ll read them for you. Did you bring parchment and ink?”

“Why would I do that?”

Akaashi deadpans. “To copy the documents so they don’t notice that anything is missing. We can’t just steal documents sealed with the court’s stamp. They’ll know we were here, if they don’t already. Which means we should hurry.” With that, Akaashi turns to sift through the documents, eyes quickly skimming through content. Most of which he tosses away, but others, he’ll linger on before copying them onto a piece of parchment of his own, using a brush from the table, dabbing it in ink. His script is flowing but legible. 

_Stop staring,_ Bokuto chides, turning to sift through the papers. The both of them work in silence but in tandem, synced. The general doesn’t know how to feel about that. 

Akaashi pauses, then curses. His movements go frantic—he arranges the papers in a certain order, puts the brush back just so, shoves his copied documents into his _qiankun_ pouch. “Footsteps,” he hisses, before grabbing hold of Bokuto’s wrist and pulling him into a corner. The both of them are pressed close in the tight space between the tent wall and the boxes before them, just enough to obscure their forms. Chest against chest, close enough that Bokuto can count every long, thick fluttering eyelash on Akaashi’s eyelids. He gulps.

“Is this why you didn’t wan—” 

“Shh! Yes. Now _be quiet._ ” 

Bokuto doesn’t notice that Akaashi’s hands have started to shake. 

“... can’t believe it,” someone exclaims, a man. He’s tall, another guard, no doubt. “Why are we still searching for that guy anyway? He _fled_ our country. Stabbed us in the back. Who _knows_ what sort of intel he’s already given Yao Long.”

“Punishment, probably,” someone else replies, a lady again. “Think they’d do what they did to that Gu Mang in old military tales? The whole subjecting to experiments with dark magic, scattering three of his ten souls, give him the intelligence of a mythical female wolf. Wouldn’t put it past our country considering we’ve done shit like that already.” She steps forwards, sifting through the documents on the table. “When will the General be coming back? I heard we’ll start making ‘negotiations’ with Yao Long soon. I wonder what we’re supposed to be doing.”

_*this might be a little confusing.[Here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hun_and_po)'s the link, though I'm not entirely basing it off of this. I think?_

“Don’t know. Word is that he’ll be back in a few more hours.” The guard shrugs and looks around the room. “What are we even doing in here? We’re supposed to be on patrol.”

“I just wanted to see what’s going on behind the scenes. The General doesn’t mind if we step into his tent anyway.” She drops the documents and turns to the male guard, crossing her arms as she leans against the table behind her. “I wonder what made him defect. Heard he was the best fighter, the top assassin, or something. He killed when he was, what, a child? Was he even thirteen when he first shed blood? And he’s been raised here all his life.”

“What can you expect from the son of a nameless mother? He was raised in a _brothel,_ mind you.” The man shakes his head. “Akaashi Keiji. Top assassin, brothel’s little bitch. Think he’d be better in bed than he is at killing people?” He blows out a whistle, laugh twisted and cruel, a little perverse. “I don’t even _like_ men, but, deities, he is one pretty man. I’ve seen him a few times before he defected, and when I tell you he’s an absolute jewel, better than even the Emperor’s harem, it’s no exaggeration.” He splays his hands, eyebrows coming together as he tries to think of appropriate words. “He’s tall and slim, and he’s muscular, but he isn’t too much so. Pale skin and eyes like jewels. They’re like, blue-grey, but I remember seeing some green in them.” He sucks in a breath. “And don’t get me started on his voice. He’s so cold, too. Those types are always the spiciest in bed.”

“You’re disgusting,” the woman retorts, rolling her eyes, though her words lack fire. “Hearing you describe him like that makes you think you _do_ have a thing for men. And now I want to meet him, too.” She pulls out a knife, twirls it in her hands, grin lecherous and amused. “Heard he does whatever job he’s given as long as he gets paid. You think he’d be down for a threesome if we gave him a bunch of gold? Do his services include the ones made in bed?” 

It takes every inch of Bokuto’s strength not to knock the both of them out right then and there. His hands are curled tight into fists, the veins of his necks popping, expression no doubt ferocious—it’s a stark contrast to the assassin’s cool indifference as he listens, arms neatly tucked in his sleeves, more composed and unruffled than ever. 

It’s not like the general doesn’t know what Akaashi’s life was like before he came to Yao Long. He knows he was raised in a brothel(hard not to, when the male had hissed those words to him not so long ago), but to hear him slandered this way… He despises what Akaashi Keiji stands for, but this? He _loathes_ this. Or maybe it’s because the assassin is one of Yao Long’s citizens now that he’s feeling all defensive, but he’s _very_ close to exposing their position. Pressed against each other as they eavesdrop. 

The male lets out a nasty laugh. “We raised this fucking dog and he’s turned right back around to bite the hand that feeds him. Like I said, we shouldn’t expect anything less from the son of some nameless woman, likely a prostitute, even if she _is_ pretty. You think maybe the Master called him in because he just wanted a pretty, young fuck?” He rolls his eyes. “He _was_ raised in a brothel after all. He probably knows _all_ the ways to make someone feel good,” he purrs, winking at the female guard. “I reiterate my statement. He’s probably a better fuck than he is a weapon.” 

Something in Bokuto snaps. He rushes forward, unable to contain himself. Grabs the guy by the neck, gives him a good fucking punch to the face. There’s a sickening _crunch,_ a yelp, followed by a whimper. The general twists his arms behind his back before he can reach his weapon, kicks him down. “Your mother would be so disappointed,” he drawls, mimicking the other’s formerly mocking tone. “Is that how she raised you? To talk about people like that behind their backs?”

The guard opens his mouth to answer, but Bokuto brings his hand down onto the nape of his neck, and he falls. 

“Who—” 

The girl doesn’t get to finish her sentence. Not when Akaashi’s before her in the blink of an eye, striking her pressure points, knocking her out. Bokuto steps forward, reaching a hand out, but the assassin lifts his hand too quickly, nearly smacking the general’s face in the process. He starts to frown, asking, “What’s wrong with y—”

“Don’t. Touch me,” Akaashi interrupts, slowly lowering his hand as he clenches it. His knuckles are white, his eyes closed, body trembling. “ _Don’t_.” 

“I just wanted to—”

Akaashi grimaces once, forcing Bokuto to halt. It’s only then that he realises that something is wrong with the other. The faint smell of blood wafts through his nose(yes, he can smell it, he’s a cultivator; sometimes even he forgets that he has heightened senses) and he blinks, eyes flicking to his clenched fists. Blood drips down, but it doesn’t splatter onto the carpet, because somewhere along the way Akaashi’s other hand has closed around his clenched one. 

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he snaps, eyes still closed, still trembling. “Just don’t. Don’t touch me.”

And then he remembers that Akaashi was nearly raped. By _his_ men. Touched in places he didn’t _want_ to be touched. 

“... Do you need me to step away? Give you a little space?”

“... Okay.”

He does. 

The both of them stand there for a few moments in silence. Akaashi’s trembling stops after forever and he heaves a small sigh, exhausted. He’s about to pull out his _qiankun_ pouch to start copying the documents when the tent opens again. 

And now neither of them are hiding. 

Dark eyes narrow. “What are _you_ doing here?”

And then, because his timing is always fucking _impeccable_ , Bokuto Koutarou wakes up. 

**——————**

He wakes up cursing. He sits up so abruptly he loses balance, and then he puts his face in his hands, heaving a sigh. The pain he feels in his head, his heart, is all too much. _What the fuck_ was _that?_

“Bokuto-san,” a familiar cool voice calls. Bokuto takes a deep breath before he lets his hands fall, turning to look over at Akaashi, who clearly just entered the room. “... Are you alright? I have news.” He says it so grimly, the other already knows what he’ll say. He can’t help but think again of the dark-robed male covered in bandages as he curses him out, spilling his past in a fit of heat and anger. And then the soldiers, slandering him not for just defecting, but even his family. Is that his past? Are the dreams the history of a bygone time?

But how would that make sense when neither of them know each other?

“What is it?” He asks finally, breaking the slightly uncomfortable silence. 

Akaashi purses his lips. “Get ready. It’s time.” It’s only then that Bokuto realises he slept more than usual; it’s near midnight. But then again, he slept much later than he usually does to begin with. “They’re moving in.”

Bokuto groans. _But I just woke up!_

“Get ready,” Akaashi turns back to the door. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

He heaves a sigh as the door slides shut. His headache isn’t helping him and he’s starting to see a million images and hear a million things and nothing at all at once. 

_Guess it’s go time._

Pray he won’t die again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually supposed to be the conclusion of the first arc! But the chapter got really long, and so, for the sake of consistency, I'm splitting it into two parts. Here's the first. Hopefully, I'll be able to get the second part out by next week! This chapter's really tiring, though, so I'm trying not to rush it so it doesn't seem half-assed and messy (worried kermit) That being said, I hope you enjoyed it HAHAHAH


	12. (II) The First Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT.  
> TW/CW: HEAVY GORE. HEAVY VIOLENCE. MENTIONS OF BLOOD. THERE ARE MENTIONS OF DISMEMBERMENT.  
> READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I've been gone for so long. This chapter was extremely difficult to write for me and my energy has been at an all-time-low for the past few weeks.

“They started moving the moment the clock hit four in the evening. So about fifteen minutes ago,” Akaashi begins as they tread through the halls, footfalls inaudible as usual. Delicate hands tie up his long, dark hair into a ponytail, ribbon caught between his teeth. Bokuto resists the urge to run his hair through those dark locks, spilling from the deity’s delicate fingers as he wraps the ribbon around them, securing them in place. Somehow, the dark-robed immortal makes even the simplest high ponytail look good. It’s almost absurd. “I don’t think any of us expected them to start moving so quickly. It’s fortunate that we’ve already made preparations prior to this, else we’d be in _quite_ a bit of trouble.” 

Bokuto tilts his head to the side, forcing his gaze away. To the carpeted floor, maybe, the soft _ding_ the door makes when the lift arrives. “Why’s it still so calm, then?” One would think that if ghouls were going to start attacking a city, their headquarters would be bustling with activity. But no, it’s almost as though nothing’s happening at all. It’s clear that the other is disquieted, too, because his brows furrow just so as his lips curl down slightly into a frown. “They’re… waiting, we think. For their leader, I suppose.” Akaashi folds his arms in his sleeve as he walks into the lift, Bokuto naturally following in his footsteps. “A signal, too, perhaps. Some order to move.”

“Well…” The spirit starts. “... At least they’re not being subtle, right?” It’s a poor attempt at a joke, but he can’t help himself. Now that the battle’s at hand, Bokuto suddenly feels all nervous. His undead heart beats so rapidly and loudly in his chest he fears the deity might hear it, though his face shows no such indication. It’s like he’s about to start a match with a particularly strong team that he’s familiar with on national television. It’s the same thrill, the same rush of exhilaration, the same excitement. But now there’s the fear of the unknown, the fear of all the what-ifs that might become a reality. 

And Akaashi. 

Deities, _Akaashi._

“It’s because the mortals can’t see them anyway.” The deity’s voice cuts through his thoughts, tearing him from his reverie. “... And because they think they’ll win. They outnumber us by more than two times, and even if we _do_ manage to fend them off, there’s a very high possibility of reinforcements. Unless they’re foolish enough to think they’ll be able to win with what they have now.” The deity’s long fingers comb through any knots in his ponytail. Bokuto’s fingers twitch as he resists the urge to help him. Braid his hair, too. 

“Will they?” The words come thickly from his throat. He clears it, reddening slightly and hoping that Akaashi doesn’t notice his embarrassment. “Um. Win, I mean.”

The deity raises an eyebrow, then shrugs one shoulder, the hint of a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. “Well, let’s hope not.” The lift opens and the both of them step out in tandem. “All the preparations have been made; all that’s left is to play the waiting game. On our end, too, because Kuroo’s reinforcements should be here by now, if not soon.”

Bokuto still can’t quite believe that the rooster fucker is a fucking _god._ A _deity!_ A deity with _clout!_ A whole team of other small deities to back him up at his behest! Kuroo _fucking_ Tetsurou! 

Well. Okay, maybe he can _sort_ of see why they’d make him their leader. But the idea of his life-long friend(and even after that, apparently, since the ex-athlete is _technically_ dead) being _so much more than he is_ and the fact that Bokuto had never noticed is just fucking _trippy._ Not to mention Kenma being an actual demon—if you’d told the spirit last year shit like, _hey, you’re going to die on your birthday and meet a man that you feel like you should know but don’t! He’s a god! And your life-long bestie, your real homie, bro, BFF and all that shit, is_ also _a god, and his boyfriend is a fucking_ demon. _Also you’re getting weird dreams that feel like memories! How about that?_

In conclusion, it’s a rollercoaster. 

The sound of echoing laughter(once again) interrupts Bokuto’s trail of thought, prompting him to startle. Akaashi breathes a sigh before stepping into the lounge of Hinata and Kageyama’s suite, delicate fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, expression akin to something like _“here we go”._ The spirit picks out a few new voices he doesn’t exactly find familiar. 

There are a few new people lounging on the couch, all men. One is around Kenma’s height, with pale hair the colour of peaches(?) and light brown eyes, bickering heatedly with Kuroo. Another is tall, dark-skinned, watching the discussion in silent amusement. Someone who looks less Japanese and more foreign with long limbs, silver hair and green eyes attempting to join in on the fun, only to be dissed by the small, light-haired one. A guy with a mohawk dyed blond. A lanky boy with brown hair that stands up and bright eyes, another bald boy with thick eyebrows, and another with dark hair parted in the middle. Bokuto takes it all in in a split second and blinks when he realises he recognises none of them for once. 

“They your reinforcements?” The ex-athlete’s voice cuts through the chatter as he sits down. “They’re fast.”

“They came just in time,” comes Kuroo’s smug reply, winking. “Right on the dot like I knew they wou—”

“Right on the dot a few hours _late,_ ” Kenma cuts in dryly, crossing his arms with a raised eyebrow as he tilts his head to the side. “You don’t have to try and look good in front of Bokuto.”

“Or any of us. Yaku-san.” Akaashi emerges from the dark like a wraith, footsteps inaudible. A hush falls almost immediately, and, like clockwork, Bokuto watches the faces of the newcomers go from pale surprise to outright shock and disbelief. The peach-haired male only nods numbly in acknowledgment as his gaze flickers between Bokuto and Akaashi. The ex-athlete assumes this guy to be Morisuke. 

And then, of course, the chatter. Voices overlapping as they yell over each other in an attempt to be heard. The tall guy with the green hair turning to Kuroo and going, “Senpai, that’s _Akaashi Keiji,_ right? With… you told us that he’s _the_ Bokuto Koutarou? In the flesh?” A pause. “Well. Sort of in the flesh. Spirit flesh?” And ‘Yaku’ slaps his back, which causes him to yelp. The peach-haired male brings his gaze back to the deity and spirit, expression mixed. The other one with dark skin is flabbergasted, but silent, gaze flickering between the two. 

Bokuto finds it a little comical how, every time people realise he’s with Akaashi, or Akaashi is with _him,_ they go absolutely ape shit. Even if he doesn’t know why and no one is willing to tell him. And among all the chaos of flabbergasted faces, there’s the sound of Kuroo’s echoing, _obnoxious_ laughter as he doubles over in his seat, clutching at his stomach and laughing away to his heart’s content. Akaashi grimaces at the loudness of everything, but Bokuto doesn’t take much notice of that. Not when he’s too busy being amused by this carnage. 

“Is _that_ how I looked?” He asks between peals of laughter as he’s wiping tears from his eyes. “Is that really what I was like when I first saw you two together?”

“Yes,” comes Kageyama’s curt reply. “You looked like… you looked like you didn’t know where you were for a moment at one point.”

“Yeah! Like you were completely blanking!” Hinata adds enthusiastically. “You looked like you short-circuited. But we did, too, so…”

_Damn,_ he wishes he knew why everyone’s always freaking out about Akaashi and Bokuto meeting. 

“Kuroo,” Yaku starts. “I think you should introduce us.”

“Y’all got mouths, don’t you?” Kuroo huffs. “Introduce _yourselves._ ”

The peach-haired male gives the other a dirty look that screams with ‘I’m going to fucking _punt_ you’ before rolling his eyes and taking charge. “Yaku Morisuke.” He grins at Bokuto, walking forward as he sticks out a hand(which the ex-athlete easily accepts). “I’m under _that_ idiot’s—” he gestures at Kuroo “—faction. Or whatever you want to call it. I’m in charge of our defense strategies and stuff.” A flick of his chin towards the hall, non-Japanese male sprawled next to him on the couch. “This idiot with the green eyes is Haiba Lev. He’s half-Japanese, which is why he doesn’t look Asian. As in, he’s half-Russian. And the only thing that makes him intimidating is his height.” 

“Oi!” Lev whines, only to cross his arms and pout, eyes cast aside as he grumbles to himself. “I can be _plenty_ intimidating without my height to back me up!”  
  


“Not when you can’t even get your simple defense maneuvers right, you dumb fuck,” Yaku snaps back just as quickly. The entirety of the Nekoma teams seems rather used to their banter, because their expressions barely change throughout the exchange, but Bokuto finds his eyes flitting back and forth between the two in infinite amusement that he can’t seem to temper down. 

And the banter continues, of course. Even as the rest of the team introduces themselves, even as the sun begins to set. Even if it’s hours after that. It’s a shame the team isn’t as adept at hiding their sill-baffled, in-disbelief state when they set their eyes upon both Akaashi and Bokuto sitting next to each other. Though the former, dark-robed deity doesn’t seem to have much shift in expression, the ex-athlete can tell that he’s getting just a little annoyed. But he doesn’t voice out his irritation. And because he doesn’t, no one catches on. No one but Bokuto Koutarou, as it always is. Somewhere along the way, Kageyama and Hinata were whisked away, and now there’s only Bokuto, Akaashi and the team. The atmosphere is amiable enough, but beneath it is the underlying tension, the anticipation for battle. Some of them are getting reckless, unable to sit still. Some have even gone elsewhere to practice their movements. Even Bokuto is more restless than usual.

“How’s Jingyin?” Lev asks suddenly, out of nowhere. “That’s his name, right? I haven’t seen him in awhile—actually, can he control himself yet?”

The room falls silent and all eyes fall on Akaashi. The immortal merely crosses his hands over his lap, expression neutral and easy, voice as steady and cool as ever when he replies, “He’s doing alright. I think he’s getting a better hold of himself. Still a little unstable, but he’ll be fine.”

“I miss him,” Lev laments. “He’s nice.” A pointed look Yaku’s way. “Nice and _gentle._ ”

Yaku scowls, crossing his arms as he huffs, cheeks puffed out, lips pulled into a small pout, eyebrows scrunched. “Would you _listen_ to me if I’d been gentle with you? I don’t even need your answer—it’s _no,_ isn’t it? Don’t even _try_ to protest, you overgrown chalk. Not unless you mean it.”

Lev opens his mouth, closes it, huffs and crosses his arms. Then he lights up and makes to speak again, but when he meets Yaku’s gaze, paired with the older’s crossed arms, raised eyebrows and expectant expression, the hand he’s lifted up slowly falls and he sinks back into his seat with a pout, allowing himself to (begrudgingly) be rendered speechless. He grumbles again beneath his breath, but Bokuto doesn’t catch it. 

The door bursts open, followed by purposeful footsteps. Iwaizumi steps into their line of view, expression grim and serious as he plops down on the couch next to Bokuto, a hand massaging his temples. “The preparations have been made. Hopefully, they’ll be enough, and we’ll be able to get this over with as soon as possible.” Hinata and Kageyama enter the room, but the general doesn’t so much as spare them a _glance._ “We don’t have much of a Plan B, so we’re going to have to hope luck is on our side. Because we can’t rely on the gods when we _are_ them.” A sardonic snort at his own dry joke. “Anyway, all that’s left is to play the waiting game.” His dark eyes cast themselves to the window as the prefecture comes alive with lights flickering on, piercing through the dark of the night. Bokuto is reminded of how Miyagi looked from the top of this building—a plethora of lights beneath the dark night sky, not unlike fallen stars made by humans because they couldn’t reach the ones above. _Why seek the brilliance of celestial objects when we can simply make our own?_

“It won’t be much longer now,” Kenma offers, leaning back in his seat. Bokuto wonders if there’s some sort of procedure to these battles. After all, everyone—well, not _everyone,_ but definitely the entirety of the Nekoma team—is dressed like they’re about to go for some midnight jog. Not fight a bunch of ghouls about to commit murder and potentially wipe out an entire prefecture of people. Apart from Iwaizumi and Akaashi, who wear their usual robes. But that’s it. 

“You know what would be funny?” Hinata supplies after a few moments of silence. Bokuto perks up, gaze flicking over to the orange-haired male, his own head tilted to the side as he leans forward in curious interest. 

“What?” He asks. 

Kenma’s feline eyes focus on Hinata and he opens his mouth. “Don’t—”

“If it happened right now!” Hinata says, laughing. “What luck, right? If—”

“They’re moving!” The frantic, oh-so-familiar voice of Kitsu rings throughout the room as the kitsune shuffles in. “They’ve started moving in from the south. We’ve already stationed forces there, but…” He hesitates. “But there are a lot of them. We won’t be enough.”

The entire room collectively releases a sigh, while Akaashi brings a hand to his forehead, which is his equivalent of a facepalm at this point. Hinata’s face is torn between sheepish laughter and the urge to cry, though he also looks fairly guilt-stricken. When Kenma speaks, he says, in a dully amused tone, “That’s why you _don’t_ say things like that, Shouyou.” 

“... Sorry…?” 

“He’s got a crow’s mouth on him, that’s for sure,” Kuroo murmurs beneath his breath, to which Hinata only laughs sheepishly.

“Let’s go.” Akaashi sweeps his sleeves as he stands up, looking as battle-ready and graceful as ever with his dark, silken robes and almost regal bearing. _Dragon Lord,_ they’d called him. Though Bokuto doesn’t _quite_ understand why, it’s oddly fitting for him in this moment. He can almost imagine the horns sprouting from the other’s head, black and high, curling above his head. Almost. When he stands, he is like a beast unfurling its wings, a predator emerging from the depths of the dark that it hides away in. The others, too. Standing, stretching, finally able to battle at last. Bokuto feels like… a potato compared to the rest of them. 

“Bokuto.” Iwaizumi’s rough voice stops him from leaving with the rest. A _dadao_ is unceremoniously shoved into his arms, its hilt and blade intricately carved with patterns, a grey-blue sword tassel with some white hanging from it. The blade is slightly curved, a smooth black. The characters carved onto it glow a faint gold. It’s… strikingly familiar in his grasp. The light it emits is warm and pulses for but a few moments before it fades. The general clears his throat. “... Just use it for now. It should suit your tastes, weapon-wise.” 

_“This one! I like this one!”_

_“Name it, then.”_

_“Ehhh…? Can’t sensei name it for me?”_

_“No. If you do not name it, it will not recognise you as its owner. All divine weapons must be given names for them to truly have power.”_

_Bokuto scrutinises the_ dadao _in his hand. He’s only sixteen, but he’s already able to handle such a weapon. “Then…” He looks up, golden eyes alight to meet Sakurai-sensei’s eyes. “Let’s name it Wukong.”_

*无恐 means No Fear.

  
“Bokuto?” 

The male tears himself from his reverie, shakes his head a few times just for extra measure. The flashbacks keep coming. “Yeah, sorry. Just… this weapon’s super familiar.”

Iwaizumi’s expression is mixed between astonishment, guilt, pain and a sort of anticipation. For a brief moment, he looks like he’s fighting with himself, but then he speaks anyway. “It has a name.” He gestures to the blade glowing warmly in the spirit’s hands. “... My old friend named it. Wukong. You should… try calling it that.”

“Wait, wh—” 

“I’ll meet you outside.” Iwaizumi leaves before Bokuto can get another word in edgewise with a sweep of his robes, leaving Bokuto to stand, flabbergasted, in the middle of the room with the weapon in his hand. He tests the name, shapes his mouth and recites it silently. And then he says it aloud and—

It starts with a small trickle of warmth, of power. A whoosh, like someone’s welcoming him home. The blade glows another colour in his hand—cold, hard blue seeping into the colours of fire and gold. He blinks, finding this unfamiliar, but it doesn’t set off any alarms in his head. At least, for now. 

_Welcome back._

Bokuto doesn’t even notice that he’s crying until he reaches up to wipe away the tears trailing down his cheeks.

**——————**

It’s already dark out when Bokuto leaves the building. The rest of the team have dispersed to their stations, leaving only Iwaizumi, Kuroo, Akaashi, Kenma and an anxious Kitsu, who wrings his hands together, eyes darting about. He greets Bokuto with a nod when he sees the ex-athlete, bowing slightly in respect as he always does. “Bokuto-san. Preparations have all been made as you have discussed previously. The power should go out right about—”

The lights sputter once, weakly, and then the night goes dark. It’s eerie how it’s suddenly _even more_ quiet than it was before in the absence of the ever-present whirr and hum of electricity. Their surroundings are plunged into darkness before the deities lift their open palms, light dancing over their fingers in forms of translucent flames. 

“—now.”

“Let’s go,” Iwaizumi says, already turning around. He makes a gesture with his chin, prompting Kitsu to hurry to the lead. Despite his nervous bearing, the kitsune is still graceful with his feet, movements elegant and sure. The journey takes about fifteen minutes before he halts, arm thrown out to stop them from venturing further. 

“They’re here.” Fox ears twitch every which way as the fox spirit listens for movement. “Be careful. There are more than just the ones we can see right now. Lights, My Lords.” 

The deities hurriedly snuff out the fire in their hands with either a swipe of their wrist or the closing of their hands into fists. Iwaizumi frowns, surveying the area, at the creepy but not very threatening sight of ghouls picking at human clothes and toys on the ground. “Is this all of them?” To which Kenma shakes his head, crossing his arms. Bokuto realises that somewhere along the way, he’d switched from exercise gear to the traditional robes not unlike the ones Iwaizumi and Akaashi always wear. Kuroo, too. They’re silken, a dark red lined with gold, a belt fastened around their waists. Their sleeves are tucked into some sort of cloth wrapped around half of their forearms, fingerless gloves on their hands. 

“There’s no way. There will be more coming in as the night goes on, I reckon. Catch.” Kenma throws a _qiankun_ pouch Bokuto’s way, to which the spirit fumbles for when he catches it and it starts to bounce off of his hand. So much for trying to be smooth. “Let’s get on our swords. We won’t be able to get this in their eyes if we’re ground level with them.”

It’s underwhelming, really, this whole thing, but even so, his heart beats in his chest. There’s more to this, isn’t there? There _has_ to be. It’s too quiet, too easy. Something’s going to happen. 

“Wait.” Bokuto blinks, just before the others can rise, realising something. “How… How do you? Wait. What are you guys going to do with your swords?”

The deities(and fox spirit) blink once, as if remembering something, before Akaashi sighs and waves his hand, gesturing for the others to go first. Kuroo and Kenma exchange a glance, expressions indecipherable, before their swords rise and they’re in the air. Kitsu’s ears twitch once before he sweeps the sleeves of his robes—and then he’s gone. Bokuto shifts his attention to Akaashi, who meets his gaze coolly. “Put your weapon on the ground.” 

“Am I going to learn how to fly on… my sword?” 

“Yes.” The dark-robed deity remains rooted in place, hands crossed as he waits patiently for the ex-athlete to do as instructed, which he does, about a moment later. Tentatively placing the intricately decorated weapon on the ground with a silent apology because he feels like he’s dirtying it. “Step on it. One foot on the blade and another on the hilt. Your body should be facing either to your left or right, but not forward. And keep your weight between your feet.” 

The spirit nearly chokes. “Do I have to?” 

“How else will you fly?” 

He has nothing to say to that, so he shuts up. Tentatively, the spirit steps onto the blade as instructed, wondering if it’s wide enough to hold up the entirety of his build, though he doesn’t say it. Even so, Akaashi seems to take notice of his hesitance, because he says, “I’ll teach you the incantation first. Repeat after me and I’ll teach you how to channel your own spiritual energy. Hopefully it’ll be enough—it’s difficult with non-cultivators.” And then he does. His tone turns singsong, sounding like he’s chanting and singing at the same time in a language long-forgotten and yet so _painfully_ familiar. It isn’t too long—not even two seconds. And, usually, Bokuto would have trouble remembering it, but the words slide easily from his lips not a moment later, his body thrumming with a sort of warmth that he doesn’t know the source of. And then the blade beneath his feet elongates, broadens. Akaashi’s astonished expression causes a rush of triumph to course through the spirit’s body. 

“How…?” The deity shakes his head. “Nevermind. I shouldn’t bother asking when you’ve been an anomaly from the start.” His eyebrows pull together ever-so-slightly as he appraises the spirit standing on the blade(and blatantly ignores the fact that he’s basically preening at the not-compliment slash not-insult). “Who _are_ you?”

_I wish I knew, Akaashi. I wish I knew._

But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he winks. “That’s for me to know and for _you_ to find out, ‘Kaashi. You gonna teach me how to fly?” Even though he’s still rather on the fence on the idea of trusting this piece of metal to carry his weight(no matter how much it’s grown in size) and feels like he’s dirtying the intricate weapon, he still asks. Because he has to, and because he needs to change the subject. Bokuto catches the way Akaashi’s eyes narrow, and, though he(thankfully) doesn’t push, he can tell that he isn’t planning on dropping this subject anytime soon. 

“Another incantation. Once you get used to channeling your power, you won’t need to recite them aloud anymore.” The next chant is slightly longer, but Akaashi says it faster. His gaze glints coldly beneath the cover of the night, shrewdly watching Bokuto, who, unsurprisingly, picks up on it in the next second with little difficulty. His sword rises once, and he wobbles, surprised. 

_How can someone be so experienced yet new to something at the same time?_

No sense. It makes absolutely _no sense._

Bokuto rises again, the movement of the sword abrupt, and he looks like he’s about to topple over any second now, honestly. But, no, he does something even worse—he lets out a yelp. 

And then suddenly it’s too quiet, too still. Bokuto freezes in place after waving his arms to regain his balance, and Akaashi is already on his way to his own weapons—his oddly-shaped knives. 

An ear-piercing shriek sounds through the night, cutting through the silence of the dark. And then Bokuto and Akaashi are rising high, high, high, because the monsters finally smell _prey._ Even the talismans used to veil their scent are useless if they make a sound. 

“Now!” Kuroo yells, frantically tossing down the powder as the ghouls make a mad run towards where Bokuto and Akaashi were just standing, ignoring the pile of mortal belongings completely. The night is filled with more shrieks as everyone tosses down the qiankun pouches to properly blind the creatures. They claw at their eyes, curl on the ground. Their screams are blood-curdling. Bokuto’s skin crawls. 

And this, of course, is when they notice another wave of ghouls rushing towards the scene. 

“Barriers!” Kuroo’s voice rings out clear and loud amidst the chaos, the screeching. “Defense! Soundproof barriers!” But even he is straining to be heard amongst the screams and shrieks beneath them. Yaku immediately throws out his hands as Kuroo, Lev and Inuoka begin their chanting. Something golden falls over the area, akin to a net, but disappears once it’s in place. The others are lobbing the powder like they’re lobbing bombs at this point. Bokuto’s about to go fucking deaf. 

When the ghouls are reduced to a shrieking, writhing mass of black beneath them(since they can’t exactly _see_ in the dark), Kenma speaks. 

  
“Now.” 

Everyone’s weapons lower and already in their hands as they charge into the fray, slaughtering any ghouls that dare approach them. Blood splatters, limbs fly. It’s disgusting. It’s exhilarating. Bokuto wants to join in. Bokuto wants to puke. He wants to watch. He wants to blind himself. He wants to laugh. He wants to scream and crawl into a hole and wipe this memory from his brain. It’s like he’s being torn in two. 

It’s like he has more than one soul in him. 

His head hurts. It stings. The _dadao_ beneath his feet wobbles and he’s about to topple over. He can’t handle this. The sounds. The smell of blood. The atmosphere. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

_Blood on his hands. Blood on his armour. Blood on his blade. Blood on his cheeks, splattered. Broken weapons on the ground, the shrieks of his comrades, of his enemies. He wants to puke, but he has to hold his ground. He swings the blade. His opponent shrieks and falls to the ground, cradling his now severed arm. He swings the blade again. His head rolls._

_How can one both love the battlefield and despise it?_

_Faces blend into faces. He doesn’t know how many he’s killed. He doesn’t know how many of his brethren have fallen. He’s sixteen. He can’t do this. He can do this. He can’t he can he can’t he can he can’t he can he—_

_For his country._

_(He’s drowning. Sinking into himself so he doesn’t have to know who he’s killed and who has died. He is drowning, drowning, drowning—)_

A cold hand closes around his arm just before he’s about to fall over. A _familiar_ cold hand, calloused and rough despite looking so delicate and elegant at first glance. From years of battle. Decades, centuries, millenia. Golden eyes meet gunmetal blue flecked with green. It tears him from his thoughts. “Bokuto-san.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “You don’t have to look if you can’t handle it.” 

He wants to say he can. A part of him thirsts for the thrill of the battle. But, fuck, the heavy, metallic scent of blood in the air, the shrieks of animalistic and wild, blind pain beneath him—he’s going to throw up. He can’t he can’t he can’t. 

“But I can still hear—”

“Look at me, then.” 

And he does. 

He doesn’t notice the hands sliding up his face, covering his ears, until the sounds around him deafen ever-so-slightly. Akaashi closes his eyes, murmurs a soft incantation beneath his breath. He almost misses the coldness of his touch when those hands fall, but at least he can’t hear anymore. Then the deity writes in the air, again, those cold blue trails of light being infiltrated with the colours of gold, of fire. _You won’t be able to hear anything for awhile._ A pause. _I’ll take the spell off of you when it gets better, or if something happens._

“Wait.” He hopes he isn’t shouting. He can’t hear a fucking thing and it’s scary. “Don’t leave me.” 

_“Don’t leave me, Kou. Stay with me. You don’t have to fight them.”_

_“If I don’t, who will?”_

_“You can’t. You won’t be able to handle them alone. Even with the others backing you up. Word hasn’t reached the heavens yet—they’ll be too late. They won’t be able to—what if you—”_

_“That won’t happen.”_

_“Don’t leave me.”_

_“Then I’ll come with you. You promised._ We _promised.”_

_“... Okay.”_

Akaashi pauses, surprised. His eyes turn to the battlefield. His eyebrows furrow and he purses his lips, weighing his options. He turns, like he’s about to write his answer, but then his expression changes and the deity whips his head back around, searching for something. He tenses before Bokuto’s eyes. The spirit is about to shout for him to wait, don’t leave, but before he knows it, Akaashi’s closed his fingers around Bokuto’s wrist and he’s pulling him away. The weapon beneath his feet follows his pull, and the spirit can do little but stare, confused, as he’s led away so urgently. When they’re far enough away—possibly out of earshot—the deity’s lips move and the sounds of the wind fills Bokuto’s ears as they cut through the air. 

But even if they’re out of earshot, there’s still that unmistakable twang of metal. It might not even be because the scent’s reached their area—it might be because its caught onto their clothes, their blades. It’s disgusting. 

Then he hears it. That singsong, sly laughter. Another familiar sound from a bygone time, he assumes. But then it distorts, changes. Something steps out from the dark. Some _one._ Doubled over, hands to his stomach, laughter cutting through the silence of the dark. He’s unfamiliar, this one. With already-rotted skin and glowing amber eyes, greasy dead hair slicked back, cracked lips bleeding from how wide he’s grinning. He reeks of death. A ghoul. 

“Now _this,_ ” he starts, making a gesture as though he’s wiping away a tear, despite the fact that his tear ducts don’t work. The living never get used to dying if they have a chance to live again, after all. “ _This…_ is interesting. What a good laugh you’ve given me, the both of you! I wonder how the heavens would react when they find out. Oh, deities, they truly never lie when they say you never disappoint, Dragon Lord.”

Again, the title. Bokuto watches as Akaashi’s lips turn down into a scowl. “Don’t call me that.”

“Is that not what you are, Akaashi Keiji?” The ghoul crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. His eyes slide over to Bokuto. “Curious, this is. Truly curious. I’m surprised the world hasn’t ended, that nothing’s exploded. How underwhelming, truly.”

“Stop speaking in circles, you old rotten fart,” Bokuto snaps, unable to hold himself back, surprised at his own animosity. “What do you want?”

“And he speaks! General Bokuto Koutarou.” A mock bow, a smirk upon cracked, bleeding thin lips. “Truly an honour it is for me to see you—no, see you _and_ Akaashi Keiji, the renowned assassin of Dong He—in the _flesh!_ Together! I never thought I’d have this opportunity in my _life._ ” He rises. “One wonders if you know _why_ I am so in awe. Do you?”

They don’t. And the ghoul can probably tell from the way they remain silent with almost identical glowers upon their faces. Bokuto’s hands are clenched into fists whereas Akaashi’s folded his arms beneath the sleeves of his robe. “What do you want, ghoul?” The deity’s voice is cold, haughty. Expectant of an answer and every bit as arrogant as an immortal being should be. 

“Entertainment. That’s good.” A sigh. “It’s not fun anymore when I am unable to meet with those from the Old World, my liege. Surely you understand? If you remember, of course.” A cunning, shit-eating grin that Bokuto wants to slap off of his face. “I hear things, Dragon Lord.” He dares to take a step forward. Both deity and spirit tense, and Akaashi is already reaching for his weapon. “Of you. You shelter a being that should not be sheltered in your very home. Do you not fear the wrath of the Heavens? Word may be spread only around the mortal realm, but it is only a matter of time before it reaches those above in the Upper Realm, the Upper Planes.”

“I have no time for your useless stalling.” Akaashi’s gaze is haughty, a little pissed, but his glare is colder than ice, harder than diamond. “Fight, or I will return.”

“And leave the general alone?” He snorts. “How unlike you. Unimaginable, almost. You would never have done so in the past.” 

Akaashi fixes an exasperated gaze on the ghoul. “I have never known him in the past. If you continue with your nonsense, I will make quick work of you and leave.”

A sneer. “You dare look down on me? On _me?_ ” He doubles over in laughter again, but his features are twisted, not quite right. Angry, almost. Disbelieving. “How _dare_ you look down on _me?_ Do you _know_ how difficult it was for me to cultivate this cursed body? How difficult it was for me to force my soul in and keep myself from turning into the wild animals I sent here? How _dare you!_ ”

And then he lunges. Bokuto blinks and the ghoul is already lunging for Akaashi’s throat. Clawing at it, almost. But the deity catches his hand and throws him aside in one swift movement. The ghoul tumbles onto the ground, laughing maniacally. “You’re looking down on me, now, aren’t you? Fine, then, do what you will.” He glares up at the deity. “I’m just a small fry looking for some _entertainment_ anyway.” He spits black blood onto the ground, surprising Bokuto, because, damn, ghouls can spit _blood?_

“But that doesn’t mean I won’t go down without a _fight!_ ” 

And then he’s moving again. An ear-piercing shriek cuts through the air. Akaashi crosses his deer-horn knives before himself and a loud _clang_ sounds through the air as the blades collide in the wake of the ghoul’s frenzied lunge, hands clawing at the deity’s face. He hisses. Akaashi pushes him off, but he doesn’t tumble. He lunges again, at the deity’s side. Akaashi blocks. Another lunge, another block. A hiss through fanged teeth, lips pulled back into a sneer. 

And then it’s all a blur. Bokuto’s eyes can’t keep up. The nails of the ghoul are more than just a _few inches_ long now, sharp and lethal. He lunges for Akaashi’s eyes. He misses. Again, another miss. A growl of frustration. 

But then… he turns. To look at Bokuto. 

And then his mouth splits into a disgusting, mouth-splitting grin. 

_Oh fuck._

And then the ghoul’s lunging at him. Mouth open, rows upon rows of sharp teeth, and the gaping hole of the inside of his mouth made visible. Bokuto holds out his arms to block, but the ghoul sinks his claws into them. It stings. It’s fucking _painful_ oh god oh fuck and it’s sinking in oh fuck oh fuck oh _fuck—_

He suddenly doesn’t know if the shrieking is the ghoul’s or his own.  
  


The pain worsens. The claws sink further in. But he can’t move them because the ghoul is sucking in air and taking his soul with it and oh fuck oh fuck he can’t feel his arms it reeks of death it hurts it hurts his arms are going weak and limp and—

A screech that definitely isn’t his own. The ghoul falls onto the ground, knocked away by Akaashi’s blade. Bokuto falls, unable to move his arms, unable to think. His mind is everywhere and nowhere at once. He is floating and on the ground at the same time. His eyes are glazed and he can’t focus. Where is he what is he who is he why is he here _how_ is he here what is he doing what's happening who is he what is his name—

It’s all a ringing in his ears. 

Who is he? 

The pained laugh pulls him back to reality. The spirit’s gaze focuses on the ghoul sprawled on the ground, fumbling back into a standing position. A dark-robed figure looms before him, protecting him—or at least, that’s what he assumes he’s doing. He flicks his wrist once. A chain whip appears in his hands and a _clink_ sounds through the dark. The spirit can’t see his face. Who is this person? Who is _he?_

_What’s my name again?_

The dark-robed male’s shadow looms. It’s larger than he is. Horns, sprouting over his shadow. A tail, not unlike a dragon’s, curling behind his figure. Only on his shadow, though. The spirit can’t see the person’s face. All he can see is the way the ghoul’s expression changes as he stumbles back, hear the clink of chains rustling against grass. 

He can’t feel his arms. 

“W-wait.” He trips, falls. Backpedals back on the ground so quickly as the dark-robed figure slowly takes his steps forward. The ghoul holds up his hands, ducks beneath them. “Wait! I’m nothing but small fry, my liege—nothing but small fry! I am of no worth. I am not the one you are after. I will tell you everything I kno—” 

A flick of the wrist. The chain whips against the ghoul’s face, throwing him aside. It glows a cold blue. He screeches, clutching his face. It steams not from heat but from the _cold._ “M-my lo—” 

Another screech. The chain wraps around his body, burns him with its cold. The ghoul shrieks in pain, head tilted back. But the dark-robed deity does not stop. No, he keeps the chain wrapped firmly around, lets it burn the ghoul with its temperature. Watches the steam rise motionlessly. Then calmly, languidly, like a dragon unfurling from the dark, he brings out an oddly-shaped weapon. Throws it down _hard,_ watches it get stuck in the ghoul’s throat. He chokes, unable to let out a sound. Blood spurts from his wound, black and thick and reeking. He can’t speak. He whimpers in pain, whistles escaping. 

“You might not be who we are looking for.” The deity’s cold voice is oddly familiar. The spirit should know it. He watches the dark-robed figure bend down, watching the ghoul suffer with little to no emotion. “But you will die in your master’s place.”

“You—were— _one of us._ ” He still manages to croak these words out despite his ruined throat. Is this how fantasy should work? “We want the same thing.”

“I am nothing like you.”

“Then him. Perhaps.” A strained gesture the fallen spirit’s way. “Him.” 

He’s compelled to deny, but he can’t speak. The dark-robed deity reaches out a pale, elegant and delicate-looking hand to trace his thumb over the cut of the terrified, suffering ghoul’s cheekbone. 

“We are nothing like you.” 

He pulls the chain. 

There’s a blood-curdling shriek. 

The ghoul explodes. 

Blood sprays. Severed body parts scatter. 

The deity waves his hand once, throws out talismans. There’s the smell of burning flesh, then there’s nothing left but the stench of blood. 

He turns around.

He’s seen this person before. 

“Bokuto-san.” The cold look in his eyes fades into worry and he hurriedly kneels down. 

_Ah. Right. That’s my name._

_Bokuto… Bokuto…?_

“Bokuto Koutarou. I’m Akaashi Keiji. Do you remember me?” His tone is a little panicked, eyes darting left and right. Hands reaching into his robe in search of a _qiankun_ pouch. Prayers on his lips. Delicate hands hurriedly swipe balm over the wounds on Bokuto’s arm and he winces, cries out weakly at the agonising sting. Akaashi murmurs a soft apology. “I’m sorry. Bear with it for a little. It will help reduce the pain. Speed up healing.” Shaking hands wrapping bandages around his arms. Lifting him and propping him against the tree. 

He remembers now. Bokuto Koutarou. Professional volleyball player. General? He isn’t sure about that. But he remembers now. Slowly. A trickle of memories. 

And then he gasps. 

The battle. The ghoul. Everything catches up and he leans over to vomit, both horrified and slightly touched at what Akaashi’s just done. For him. Was it for him? He doesn’t know. The smell of blood is _sickening._

And then everything else hits him and his head hurts and god his arms are so numb he can’t feel them at all and—

“Bokuto-san.” 

Akaashi’s cool voice pulls him from his reverie. He meets those gunmetal blue eyes, still in shock. “Respond. So I know you’re… okay.” 

“I’m not okay,” he replies immediately. “That was terrible, Akaashi.”

A sigh of relief. “... I am sorry. That you had to see that.” 

He thinks back to the horns on his shadow, the curling tail. _Dragon Lord._ What does it mean to be a Dragon Lord? And just _who_ is he sheltering? 

“Can you… remember everything?”

“Yeah. Sort of. My head hurts.” 

“Well, at least you’re still an anomaly. I suppose that works in our favour.” 

“Haha. Guess… so…” He blinks once, struggling to stay awake. He wonders for a brief moment if the others are done with their fight. But then his vision tunnels and he can’t keep his head up anymore and—

“Bokuto-san. _Bokuto-san._ ”

And then his vision goes black and he topples over. 

The last thing he feels is arms around him just before he hits the forest floor. 

**——————**

“Is he up yet?” 

“Sh! He’s twitching. I think he’s up.”

“Man, can’t believe we have to hold back on our partying just because we’re waiting for him.”

“ _You_ try having claws sunk so deep into your arms they almost hit bone. On _top_ of having the last remnants of your soul almost sucked out of you and devoured. On _top_ of having absolutely _no_ prior experience to such injuries or… any fighting at all.” 

A sigh of exasperation cuts through the air. Bokuto’s eyes twitch once beneath his eyelids, the movement prompting the entire room to fall silent. And then they snap open and he groans, reaching a hand up to block the light in his face. And then he curses because, holy _shit,_ his arms _hurt._ So he turns his head away. He tries to sit up, but it’s pretty hard without the help of his arms. Cold hands wrap around his arms, along with another pair, to help him sit up. He slowly opens his eyes, adjusts to the light. His head’s throbbing, too. 

“Fuck, my _arms._ My _head._ ” He groans again, leaning his head in his hands. His forearms strain, so he begrudgingly tries not to lean all of his head’s weight down. “Please tell me I didn’t go through all of that for nothing.” 

“You didn’t.” Kuroo shakes his head, face splitting into a grin. “Total fucking victory. I think the ghouls sort of knew when the big guy Akaashi killed died. They just started… panicking all of a sudden. But we think it’s weird. Since they all retreated at exactly the same time…”

“There’s someone else. The ghoul I killed was just a pawn.” Akaashi’s expression is not unlike stone, his arms crossed tightly before his form. Bokuto realises he’s seated beside his bed. “He said it himself. We aren’t the ones he’s looking for. The only problem is finding who _is._ ” 

“So what do you plan on doing next?” Kenma speaks, looking up from the floor to fix his eerie gaze on Akaashi, head tilted to the side. Observing. 

“Go back to Tokyo.” Akaashi taps his fingers against his arms. “Find Junya. We might not know who we should be after, but _he_ might. And, even if he doesn’t, I still have some questions for him. Beom is resourceful, but he isn’t as good or old as Junya is.” 

“Junya…” Kuroo shivers. “The guy’s fucking terrifying. He’s probably older than all of us combined and he _still_ has his nine tails.” 

“Anyway.” Akaashi uncrosses his arms and folds them on his lap in one swift movement. “... You should all party first. Or whatever. I’ll leave too so Bokuto-san can have some space and relax—”

“Wait.” Bokuto shakes his head. “You guys can go. I want Akaashi to stay.” He meets the deity’s astonished gaze with a sly sort of smile, tilting his head to the side. “Won’t you keep me company?”

The deity hesitates in place as the others shuffle out, eager to party, to let loose, tense in his seat. But even as the door slams shut, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he tilts his head to the side, gunmetal blue eyes appraising, analytical. Confused. “Why?” He wrings his hands, looks down as he does. “You saw what I did. What I became.”

“Yeah.”

  
  
“I killed him.”

“Yep.”

“Tortured him.” 

“Yup.” 

He fixes a glare on him. “What do you want?”

Bokuto laughs, leans his head back. “Akaashi. I just want your company.”

“Why? Didn’t you know Kuroo-san? Kozume-san? You’ve known them for longer than I have.”

“Mhm.” He closes his eyes. “But I want _your_ company. So stop being so whiny about it and just… make yourself comfortable. We’re in no rush to head out, right?”

  
“Well, no, but—”

“So sleep.” He finally opens his eyes, golden meeting gunmetal blue. “I’ve never seen you sleep before me or wake up after me. So take a break, Akaashi.” He shuffles his butt to the side, uncovering the blanket, freeing up space. “Sleep.” A pat on the now empty sheets next to him. 

Akaashi hesitates. “Here? Now? There?”

“What?” His heart beats in his chest even as he plays it off with a tilt of his head, gaze challenging when he meets the deity’s eyes. “You don’t want to?”

Akaashi opens his mouth, lips already formed into the shape of a ‘no’. But the words don’t come out. He just sits there, shocked. So Bokuto laughs and gently reaches over to tug him onto the bed with him. He keeps a respectful distance, close but not touching. His movements aren’t too forceful, either—he’s still giving the other a chance to decline. 

But he doesn’t.

Bokuto doesn’t tell Akaashi that the latter ended up cuddling up to him in his sleep. 

Akaashi doesn’t tell Bokuto that he’s never had such a good sleep in millenia. 

(But, deep in their souls, they know it anyway.) 

**——————**

“Are you ready?” Akaashi’s shouldering on his robes, securing the waist belt in place, double-checking to make sure he still has all of his _qiankun_ pouches. Bokuto catches sight of the jade pendant before it’s tucked once more into his robes. He nods. 

“Yep. Let’s go.” 

Back to the forest. To the array. Akaashi’s movements are swift and quick. And, in no time, they’re already in Tokyo. 

“Keiji!” 

The both of them turn towards the sound, whipping their heads back so quickly they almost get whiplash. Bokuto’s arms still fucking hurt like hell, but oh well. And the owner of the voice is… Shun, was it? Bokuto squints again to reconfirm, then nods to himself when he’s sure he’s remembered right. Shun. 

“Ah. And th—Bokuto-san is here as well. Good evening.” He offers a hasty bow to both of them. “I thought you’d be back. Do you want me to bring you to our place for now?”

“Why? What’s happening?” The deity crosses his arms, tilts his head to the side with a raised eyebrow. 

Shun fixes his gaze on the both of them. “... Well. I’ll tell you after you’ve both gotten an appropriate amount of rest. Word travels fast—even we know of what’s happened in Miyagi already.” He gestures to the spirit’s injured arm. “I’ll have Jae help with the wound. For now, let’s go home.” 

“Are you telling me we have to fight _again?_ ” Bokuto groans, to which Shun hesitantly chuckles. 

“Bokuto-san… Whatever you thought you’d seen, I fear this will be much, much worse.” 

“Heroes never rest.” He groans. 

Akaashi pauses in his steps, turning to look at Bokuto with an appraising look. The spirit thinks he’s about to scoff and rebut, but, no. He says something else instead. 

“If that’s what you think we are, then I suppose you’re right.” Akaashi glances skyward. “Heroes. I can’t deny that that has a nice ring to it.” 

And, well.  
  


He can’t help but feel that whoever he’s lost would be proud of him if he were truly to become one. 

A hero. 

_If I couldn’t save you, then perhaps I will save others in your place._

_What I couldn’t do for you, I will do for others._

Yeah. 

_Heroes never rest._


	13. n. The First Glimpse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW: VIOLENCE. GORE. DISMEMBERMENT. I am NOT kidding when I say this is graphic and in no way censored. Read at your own risk, because this chapter is based solely on torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's an extra chapter. it's called "the first glimpse" (into the past) and it's from Akaashi's POV!

“Who are you?”

“My name is Akaashi Keiji. I have a lover. His name was Bokuto Koutarou. We promised each other—”

The crack of a whip. A heart-wrenching scream. The sound of someone breaking down into helpless sobs. All cries, all pleas for help. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I will remember you even if they want me to forget. I will never forget you._

“You have no lover. You have never had a lover. You will never _have_ a lover. You are doomed to live a life of loneliness, _Dragon Lord._ ”

“I am Akaashi Keiji. I have a lover. His name was Bokuto Koutarou. We swore our vows, we exchanged our rings. He promised me the world. But my world was him.”

_And you took him from me._

“There is no _ring._ ” A hiss through clenched teeth. A hand reaches for Akaashi’s, yanks it close. He struggles, but he is in pain. He wears little but underwear, his body covered in bruises and wounds, old and new, bleeding and scarring from the use of the whip. “This ring was never yours. You’ve never had it.” The ring is torn off, along with his finger. Akaashi Keiji screams. It is full of agony, of hurt. Of pain and anger and hate. “I will ask you _again._ Who. _Are._ You?”

“My name—” Another whip. Akaashi cries out, voice hoarse, broken, dry and cracked. There is no light around him. Only the smell of water as it’s splashed onto the stony floor to wash away the blood. Blood on his hands. Blood bleeding down his back. Blood on the whip. His bloodshot eyes simmering with rage and spite and hate and fucking _sadness._ “ _My name is Akaashi Keiji_.” Another crisp crack of the whip on his exposed back. Once plain and pale, littered with but a few scars, now devoid of any untainted, unwounded skin. Blood blood blood blood. He can smell it. He can taste it in his mouth. He can feel it on the jagged stone floor he kneels upon. _Blood._ “I _have a lover._ ”

“You have no—”

“ _I have a lover._ ” Akaashi pushes away the hands around his arms, struggling against the heavy chains cuffing his wrist together. His hands are bleeding, too, from his frantic attempts at taking them off. There is no part of him that is not in pain. But it is nothing compared to the emptiness of his heart. “ _His name was Bokuto Koutarou. We promised ourselves to each other._ ”

A slap. Akaashi cries out as he’s thrown onto the ground. With his hands cuffed behind him, he has no way of avoiding the way his chin thumps painfully onto the stone floor, biting his tongue until he tastes blood. It’s numb. He can’t speak well now. He’s sobbing. “ _I have a lover. His name was Bokuto Koutarou. He was the only person who gave me hope._ ” 

“He’s the only reason you’re still _alive,_ you vile _thief!_ ” A kick to his gut. Akaashi groans. Curls in on himself. But rough hands seize his hair and _yank,_ forcing him to meet the guard’s sadistically glee gaze despite the sneer on his face. He spits. Akaashi chokes, tries to pull away. The guard throws him down. “Cut his hair. Cut it until he can no longer tie it.” 

“No—don’t—” 

But they don’t listen. 

“Please— _please_ —have you not taken enough from me?” 

Someone gathers his long hair. Pulls back while another makes sure Akaashi can’t move his head. Akaashi struggles, tries to bite at the guard’s hand. He can’t bring himself to use that which he stole. He can feel no power running through his blood. All he feels is pain, pain, pain, and all he is right now in this very moment is oh, so, fucking _mortal._ Powerless. Every effort futile, every movement weak. 

And then suddenly no one is pulling on his hair anymo—

No. 

That’s his hair on the floor. 

He can’t feel his hair cascading down his neck. The air hits the nape of it. 

And then he screams. 

He _screams._

The sound is heart-wrenching, blood-curdling. So broken. So sorrowful. So hateful. So angry. It gets louder, louder. The torches held in the hands of the guards are snuffed out and they’re forced to bring their hands to their ears. Some have to leave. Akaashi screams and he screams and he screams until he has no sound left, until he has no tears to weep. The chains around his wrists scratch his skin painfully. There is nothing left for him. No one to wait for him, no warmth spared. Nothing. 

But he promised. 

He promised he’d keep going. 

And Akaashi Keiji may be a dirty liar, an assassin, a cutthroat. But he is honest when he says he will keep to that promise as best as he can. 

The guards leave him. Akaashi is given no food, no water. He is left to rot in the dark of the cell. He struggles against his restraints but to no avail. He can’t stand when there are chains around his ankles too. The hours blend together and he has no way of telling time until the guards come in again. 

“Who are you?”

_I won’t forget you._

“My name is Akaashi K—”

Slap. 

The same thing happens. His locks of hair aren’t even swept away. They’re left to sit there on the floor as a brutal reminder of what he’s lost. 

He is Akaashi Keiji. He had a lover. His lover was Bokuto Koutarou. They’d exchanged vows, made promises. 

  
_My name is Akaashi Keiji—_

Again. 

Next day. 

“Who are you?”

“My name is Akaashi Keiji. I had a lover—”

His fingernails are picked out one by one. 

The next day. 

“Who are you?”

“My name is Akaashi Keiji. My lover was Bokut—”

They break his fingers. 

“Who are you?”

“My name is Akaashi Keiji. My lover’s name was B—”

Break his wrist. 

“Who are you?”

“My name is Akaashi Keiji I had a lover his name was Bokut—”

He can’t use his arms anymore. 

“Who are you?”

“I am Akaashi Keiji my lover was—”

They pick out his toenails. 

“Who are you?”

“My name is—”

They break his toes. 

Again.

Again.

Again.

_I’ll survive._

They give him water one day. He drinks it like a starved animal. He is, after all, not yet fully immortal. 

The next day. They ask. 

And it repeats.

Over and over.

More water. 

Again. 

Water. 

Again. 

He passes out.

He wakes up. 

_I’ll survive._

_For you._

_Who are ‘you’?_

_Who am I?_

_Why am I here?_

“Who are you?”

“My name is—my name is—” He stops.

“I don’t know my name.”

“Have you ever had a lover?”

_I don’t know._

But he does not say it. 

“N… no.”

“Your name is Akaashi Keiji.”

Oh, yes, that was his name. 

There’s a whisper. “The potions worked.”

The person is hushed. 

“My name is Akaashi Keiji.”

“You have no lover.”

“I… have no lover.”

“You are Heaven’s new Dragon Lord.”

“I’m… what?”

“Clean him up. He’s ready to meet the higher-ups. And give him another dose so we can be extra sure for the next three hundred and sixty-five days. We must make sure he doesn’t remember.” 

_My name is Akaashi Keiji._

_I might have had someone important to me once, but I do not remember them._

_My name is Akaashi Keiji._

_  
__I have never had a lover._

And then, somewhere, in the very depths of his mind, there is a broken, pleading whisper.

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m **sorry** ** — ** _

_**I am sorry** _

_**I am so** _

_**SO  
** _

_**sorry.** _

(I love you.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes the first arc! Tell me what you guys think in the comments and don't be afraid to share or kudos my story HAAHAHAH


	14. A Moment of Reprieve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter of the second arc!! Let's ease back into it and start the loop anew, shall we?

* * *

_“My, my. It’s nice to see you again, General.”_

* * *

Akaashi is quick to provide a _very_ brief summary of the events that transpired in their absence(though it’s only been a little over a week, it feels like it’s been forever. Time is odd that way). Shun listens silently as he easily weaves through the streets of Tokyo—it’s well past noon at this point, and Bokuto isn’t sure if others can see him or Akaashi. But it’s clear that the deity before them hasn’t bothered hiding himself from mortal eyes. Dressed in casual-formal mortal garb and with his looks and height, their eyes are naturally drawn to him. Girls glancing away to whisper and men whistling in appreciation. And yet, he pays none of the attention any mind. Bokuto wonders if he revels in it, if he enjoys it, or if he truly doesn’t notice it at all. Because he knows that if it were him, he wouldn’t be so apathetic. No, he’d be preening with all the attention he’s getting. 

Though he _does_ seem a little lost in thought. “Is that really all of it?”

“No. But I’d rather not repeat the entire story three times, so until we’re all in the same place, that will be all I have to say for the time being,” comes the cool reply. Shun nods in understanding as he makes a turn. “Have either of you been able to find out who was behind it?” 

The immortal shakes his head. “No. We’re still looking. I’ve asked Beom to look for Junya—there’s no way he doesn’t know where he is—but he’s not having it. You know how he is. How they are.” He cringes a little. “Beom doesn’t usually let his feelings interfere with his work ethic, but those two are too much like water and oil. They don’t mix.” 

“Who _is_ Junya?” Bokuto frowns. “I keep hearing his name, but I don’t actually know him.” 

The two deities exchange a glance before Shun gestures at Akaashi, like, “go on”. So the latter sighs and folds his arms into his sleeves. “He’s a nine-tailed kitsune. An informant, too.”

“What makes him so special then?”

“Well for starters, he’s ancient.” Akaashi casts his gaze skyward. “He existed far before I did. Far before Shun. Not many in the heavens are as old as he is. I doubt _anyone_ knows how old he is.” The deity shrugs. “And, well, they won’t admit it, but they seek him for information, too. Even if they preach about their distaste for demons, they seek him out. He isn’t, but it feels like he’s all-knowing.” 

“Though everything usually comes with a price,” Shun adds, cringing. “And not all those prices are good. I’ve heard some things. That he’d ask for you to cut off your finger or something in exchange.” Akaashi cringes a little here, but none of them catch it. Nor do they catch the way his hand latches onto the ring finger on his left. “And that’s calling it mild. But I’ve also heard that he’s never once asked you to repay him, Keiji.”

“No,” the deity shakes his head. “And he’s refused to tell me why. I guess being old also comes with the ability to keep your mouth shut in the most effective way possible.”

“What else?” There’s a vague sense of familiarity in his mind. Has he met this guy, too? In the past? Pale hair, seductive, sly eyes. Long fingernails atop nimble fingers as they trail up his chest, his neck, flicking beneath his chin. The scent of cinnabar in the room.

“He has a lot of connections and a lot of people under him. If the heavens have their emperor, then Diyu and the mortal realm have Junya. And we are all slaves to information.” Shun shakes his head. “Even Oikawa finds himself knocking on his door on occasion. None would dare oppress him at this rate—he might know too much, but he’s more than capable of protecting himself.” 

“You make it sound like the heavens want him gone.”

“They have for quite awhile now. And they’ve tried.” Akaashi scoffs. “But he’s still here.” 

Silence falls. All Bokuto can think is, _he’s got a point._

“Another thing,” Shun adds. “Junya doesn’t give out information if someone’s already paid him to seal his mouth shut. You can’t buy it out of him unless you give him what he asks for, and it’s usually a price as high as what he was offered to keep his mouth sealed. And it doesn’t always have to be money.” His amber eyes flicker between the two once. “It’s best that you visit him as soon as possible before it’s too late.”

Akaashi sighs. “I will. But it’s difficult to—”

“Yes,” Shun frowns. “Meeting with him is difficult.”

“Why?” The spirit asks, tilting his head to the side in inquiry. “Is he like, super busy?”

“Well, that and the fact that he’s always moving around.” Shun runs a hand through his hair. “He _does_ settle in a few places, but never for long. He has too many enemies and too much information. Everyone’s always looking for him. And, well…” His nose scrunches. “He has quite the harem. Accidental, of course—he rather enjoys having pointless bedroom activities regardless of gender. It helps that he’s handsome, I suppose.”

“Reminds me a little of Beom,” Bokuto blurts, to which Shun laughs. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t disagree.” 

“Anyway,” Akaashi cuts in. “Fill us in on what we’ve missed in the meantime,” Akaashi says, folding his arms beneath his sleeves as the trio trudges on. They turn into a dark empty alley and emerge on a slightly less popular road where people come and go, though not as often as the main one. Shun runs a hand through his chin-length hair, and Bokuto notices that half of it is tied away from his face into a small ponytail, his bangs left to fall and frame his features. The man is absurdly good-looking. Bokuto wonders if all immortals are just natural lookers. 

He purses his lips. “Things here haven’t been any better.” Pausing to let cars pass, he towers over the mortals. He seems thoroughly unbothered by how he might look speaking to air, though. “A few days after the both of you left for Tokyo, we received intel of a new temple.”

“What’s so strange about a new temple?” Bokuto tilts his head to the side. “Isn’t that normal?”

“Yes, if it’s small-scale, nor a huge one that makes a spectacle, if you understand my meaning.” Shun leads the duo down a familiar street, and Bokuto is struck by how this is the very one he usually walks along when he’s going home. He wonders what his apartment is like, now. What happened to it after he died. Is someone occupying it now? Or is it empty? His family would have cleared it out, surely. It’s a grim reminder that he’s no longer of this world even if he may exist in it. 

_I miss home,_ he thinks.

But the musings and wishes of a dead mortal are nothing in the faces of those who have lived an eternity.

“However, this one is… large. Grand. Extravagantly built. I know nothing of its origins, of how or when it was built. It appeared, quite literally, out of nowhere.” Shun frowns. “Honestly, I thought it to be normal, too. Until I was told to visit it myself. Something about it is… strange. The divinity seems forced.” A sigh. “It’s… difficult to explain. Perhaps it would be better for me to bring you there myself.” He casts a glance behind him, examining the duo. Then he turns back with a small huff and a shake of his head, subtle in its action. “Not now. When you are both well-rested and recovered, I will bring you. For now, at least, there has been no trouble.” 

“Who is it dedicated to?” Akaashi asks. The streets are more foreign to Bokuto, now, but he can still vaguely recognise a few things that tell him they’re close to Beom’s apartment building. “The temple.”

“The Goddess of Fortune, Ebisu.” He licks his lips. “But, again, it does not feel like it. Odd. Strange. It’s difficult to put into words. Mortals would not be able to tell, but we… we can. I will bring you both there when you’re both healed. For now, we will see you treated and well-rested. Hwanjae’s already worried himself half to death ever since we received news of the events that transpired in Miyagi.”

“It’s rare for you to be at a loss for words,” Akaashi muses with a delicately raised brow. “Is it so strange?”

A soft chuckle. They’re in the building now, but Shun doesn’t bother going to the lift. Instead, he brings them to a little corner of the building and—

He walks straight into the wall and disappears. 

_What is this, Harry Potter?_

Akaashi doesn’t even hesitate to follow, leaving Bokuto dumbstruck. He stands there, at a loss for what to do for the briefest of moments, before he sighs, mumbling beneath his breath in discontent about these cursed immortals and their ways before taking a deep breath, shutting his eyes tight and stepping forward, half-expecting to collide with the wall.

He doesn’t. 

“You can open your eyes now, Bokuto-san,” Shun advises, a hint of laughter in his words when he does. “If you’d taken any longer, the doorway might have closed.” 

“Doorway?”

“Yes. It requires an incantation to open it.” Shun leads them down the corridor, stopping before a door as he fishes through his pockets. “It’s convenient and requires less waiting.” A swipe, a beep. The door opens and before the deity can open his mouth to announce his arrival, soft, hurried footsteps reach their ears followed by a figure with long, dark hair and golden, glowing eyes. 

“You’re back!” Hwanjae utters, rushing forward. “Deities, I was worried sick. Sit down.”

Shun chuckles, breaking away to go to the kitchen as Bokuto and Akaashi sit down on the couch. Hwanjae pulls a kit from thin air and settles it on the coffee table, sighing when he eyes the two once more. “Akaashi seems alright, if not a little exhausted. But Bokuto-san…” Golden eyes flick to the bandaged arms where blood is already seeping through(how does that work when he’s a ghost by technicality?) and the slightly haggard, pained experience. “What happened?”

Bokuto tilts his head to the side. “Eh? Didn’t Shun say that you guys already know what happened?”

Hwanjae shakes his head. “He’s right, but we know only of the more important details. The plan, the execution, the ending. Your injury and whatever happened in between—we don’t know of it. And I’d like to hear it from the both of you while I treat your wound.”

And then he unwraps the bandage. 

Bokuto has to look away, cringing when cold air hits his open wound and trying to ignore the scent of blood in the air. Hwanjae sucks in a breath, clearly not expecting such a deep injury. “Deities,” he breathes, looking up and meeting Bokuto and Akaashi’s gazes. “What _happened?_ ”

With a sigh, Akaashi gives another brief summary while Hwanjae leaves briefly to wash his hands by the sink. He returns quickly, opening the kit to reveal a bunch of modern medicine tools mixed with a few odds and ends. And needles, which Bokuto swallows at the sight of because, holy _fuck,_ some of them are _huge._ “How long has he been injured? Did you sterilise the bandage?”

“I did first-aid on him with Iwaizumi-san, Nekoma’s healer and Kitsu. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet. He was injured early this morning… an hour or two past midnight at most.”

Hwanjae frowns, inspecting the wound. Apart from his initial surprise, he seems otherwise unperturbed by the deep puncture. “... Alright. If it’s you, then I have no qualms. Why didn’t you stitch it up?”  
  


“I don’t have the experience.” Akaashi doesn’t mention his hands were shaking. Bokuto wouldn’t have known—he was passed out. But Hwanjae gives him an uncharacteristically pointed gaze. 

“Is that so?” Hwanjae leans back, shaking his head. Somehow, he missed your nerves. Consider yourself lucky, Bokuto-san—or, well. As lucky as you can get in a situation like this. I’ll clean it up and stitch it, and then we’ll perform a few tests. You should heal relatively quickly—faster than a mortal should, at least.”

“Why?” He asks, even though he already knows the answer. 

The healer’s gaze is almost eerie. “Bokuto-san,” he starts. “You’re not human. In more ways than you would think.”

_Ah._

Hwanjae gets to work, carefully applying some sort of ointment. Bokuto’s arm goes numb. The deity threads the thread through a needle before he sets to work, carefully stitching the wound together. The spirit doesn’t feel _anything._ He looks away. 

Akaashi looks sick to his stomach. 

When he’s done stitching up both his arms and replacing the bandages, Hwanjae pokes around Bokuto’s arm and asks him if he can feel this or that or move his wrist, his fingers. Which, well. He can. Just with a _lot_ of fucking difficulty. 

The door opens and slams shut followed by purposeful footsteps just as Hwanjae is packing up his belongings. “I’m home!” A voice calls, and Bokuto recognises it’s Beom’s. He emerges into view, running a hand through his hair as he plops on the couch opposite to the both of them. Shun brings him a glass of water and pauses. 

“Why do you smell like—”

“Nope. _Nope_. Don’t wanna talk about it. Fucking crusty-ass old pervert piece of fox-eyed _shit._ Talk about fucking favouritism.” He throws his head back, groaning, pointing middle fingers in the air. “I can’t fucking _believe him!_ ”

“You know,” Shun starts coolly, sitting next to his cousin. “It could be payback for the prank you pulled last time.”

“He deserved it!”

“He didn’t even _do_ anything, Beom.”

“He pissed me off.”

“It’s rare for you to be so hot-headed.”

“What can I say? That fucking fox gets on my nerves and under my fucking _skin._ ”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re getting a taste of your own medicine.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

It’s like watching shots being fired with no pause in between. Just shoot, shoot, shoot. If this is what it takes to argue with the snake demon, Bokuto isn’t sure how long he’d be able to stand it. Said snake demon lets out a huff, indignant, before forcing himself to sit upright, brows still drawn with his features still pulled into a nasty scowl. “Heard the wound was nasty,” he finally says, eyeing the bandages. “I’m going to have to make you repeat the whole story from the top to me, Akaashi. I need to see if my info aligns, and if it’s reliable.” Leaning back in his seat, he crosses his arms and legs, chin tilted arrogantly upwards as he scrutinises the unperturbed, dark-robed deity next to Bokuto. 

So he does. With the last person of their party here, Akaashi starts speaking in more detail. Apart from Beom, who looks nothing but entertained and perhaps slightly amused, the others’ expressions grow grimmer as the story continues. By the end of it, Shun turns to his youngest cousin with an eyebrow raised. Their resemblance is uncanny. 

“Does it line up?”

“Yep,” he responds. “Unfortunately, it does. Poor Bokuto. You should start getting back your muscle memory on how to fight and shit, or you’re not going to survive much longer.” 

“What about you?” Jae cuts in. “What were _you_ doing at Junya’s headquarters?”

Beom’s expression sours at the mention of the informant’s name and he almost puffs up, not unlike a pufferfish. He visibly pushes his temper down as he crosses his arms, not unlike a grumpy cat. “... Things. I wanted to get some info out of him—none of the sources here are giving me any _useful_ information about that damn temple. It’s like they’ve been paid to shut up or someone’s blocking the information. But that slimy bitch wouldn’t let me. I even—fuck, man, not even our usual payment was enough. Motherfucker.” 

“What did he ask for this time?” Shun asks, eyebrow raised. “What does he _usually_ ask for?”

“Not important,” Beom says, waving his hand. “This time he asked for an insane amount of money to top it off.”

“I told you not to mess with his documents,” Hwanjae sighs. “You deserve it.”

“Fuck his documents. All I did was mess up the order—fucking neat freak.”

“You’re being a little hypocritical there,” Shun muses. 

“Whose side are you _on?_ ”

Akaashi raps his knuckles on the table thrice, the movement sharp and the sound cutting through the cousins’ pointless bickering. “So you got nothing out of him.” Not a question—a statement. To which Beom flares, because it’s clear he isn’t used to _not_ having information. 

“I _did_ get _some,_ alright? Before the whole fucking… fiasco.” He waves his hand, deflating. “The temple wasn’t built by mortals—before you say, well, _duh,_ it popped out of _nowhere—_ I’m not an idiot. But what I _mean_ is that it was built by a bunch of ghouls. That ring a bell?” His gaze flicks between Bokuto and Akaashi, and, satisfied with the reaction, he leans back in his seat, tucking a lock of wavy, brown hair behind his ear. “They collapsed into dust right after, though, so you don’t have to worry about fighting another wave. All I know about the temple is that there’s no divine energy in there—but there’s plenty of _ours._ Demonic energy, _yin_ energy, dark energy, whatever the fuck kind of nasty energy there is—it’s there.” He blows a whistle. “If what I think is going on is true, then I’ve gotta say, it’s nasty, but it’s genius. I don’t have the evidence to back up my theory yet, so I’ll be sneaking in after hours to check.” A sly smile graces his lips.

“And what if you’re wrong?” Shun asks, folding his arms in his sleeves. “Because if you are, what you’re going to do is most likely going to be some form of blatant disrespect, isn’t it?”

Beom only shrugs. “What do I care? ‘S not like _we_ got any respect from _them._ Besides, dear cousin,” he coos, winking. “I know what I’m doing. I’m the youngest here, but this is _my_ field of expertise. And I don’t give a shit about the consequences when the fact that I’m still breathing already pisses the people up top off. What’s a little more pissing, ya know?”

“You’re going to get yourself _killed_ one day if you keep going like that,” Shun retorts, frustrated. “Aren’t you _afraid?_ ”

Beom raises an eyebrow. “Look me in the eye, dear cousin. Do I look like a man who fears death?”

“Fine. But _we_ fear _yours._ ”

He blinks once, then laughs, shaking his head. “There’s your first mistake, Shun,” he starts. “I’m a selfish motherfucker.”

And, well—something about that is sad, too. 

Beom pauses. Then, “I don’t _need_ your _protection_.” Leaning back in his seat, he closes his eyes. “And I don’t _want it._ ”

Surrounded by people, Sakurai Kohaku seems like a very, _very_ lonely man. 

**——————**

Akaashi opens the door and blinks once. Before Bokuto can follow him in or even _open_ his mouth to ask why the former looks so irate, he’s turned around and made brisk steps back towards the lounge, where the three cousins sit, heads inclined to each other as they discuss something. Naturally, all three heads turn toward the coldly seething deity. The corner of Beom’s lips curl and he tilts his head to the side, tucking a lock of brown hair behind his ear as he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees with steepled hands. “Akaashi?” 

“Where did the futon go? There’s only one bed,” he starts coolly, folding his arms beneath the sleeves of his robe. “In case you forgot, the bed is only slightly larger than a queen-sized bed.”

For a brief moment, Bokuto wonders why Akaashi is so worked up. After all, it’s only natural to put a spare futon back into the store if it’s no longer in use, right? Up until Beom shrugs when all eyes turn to him, leaning back in his seat as he casts his gaze skyward. “Oh, is that so?” Peach blossom eyes curving into crescents as he smiles. “Oops.”

“What do you mean, ‘ _oops?_ ’”

He shrugs again. “About that spare futon…” He meets Akaashi’s gaze. “I burned it.” 

Hwanjae blinks. “Didn’t y—”

Beom’s leg kicks Hwanjae’s, effectively shutting him up in one smooth motion. All while he says, “Looks like you’ll have to sleep with Bokuto until we find the time to get you a new one.” 

“ _What?_ ” Now _both_ of them are dumbstruck, Bokuto’s voice louder and more surprised than Akaashi’s with his jaw wide open and a blush already crawling up his neck, his cheeks, his ears. 

Shun purses his lips, looking away, visibly trying not to laugh aloud. His knuckle presses his lips and he clears his throat, hiding a snicker. “We’ll be so busy, though. You might need to get used to sleeping with Bokuto-san for the time being until we’ve solved this problem, Keiji. Apologies.” And, despite the obvious attempt not to laugh, Shun manages to say all of that smoothly, calmly. Easily. 

“How would I even fit there?” Akaashi’s tone is a little helpless, a little wronged, like he’s being bullied. Which, well. He is. Bokuto doesn’t really _mind_ that he has to sleep with Akaashi, though. He’s never hated the idea—in fact, he rather _fancies_ it—and he never will. From the very start when they’ve been forced to live in the same room together until now, he’s never minded. And they’ve already slept in the same bed together, right? Like… once. And it was a very _nice_ sleep. 

Akaashi throws up his hands, clearly giving up on trying to argue any further before he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Fine.” He sits down on the couch, clearly intending on forgetting that he has to share a small bed with Bokuto for the time being. Or, at least, until he has to re-enter that room. On one hand, the spirit gets it. After all, Akaashi probably sees him as nothing but a friend or something, right? But on the other… well. Maybe he _does_ want to sleep with him. Just sleep. Like yesterday when they shared a bed and woke up feeling more well-rested than they had been in ages. Maybe it’s ‘cause he feels like he and Akaashi just… _fit._

And maybe it’s because he’s starting to realise what those dreams mean and how he came to know the deity from the very beginning. 

“What are you three discussing?” He asks tiredly, running a hand over his face. “If it’s about the case, shouldn’t we listen in on it, too?”

“Did the Heavens already give this over to you?” Beom asks, eyebrow raised and head tilted to the side. “Since when are they that efficient?” 

There’s a short moment of silence—the feeling of ‘I want to refute what you just said, but now that I think about it, I can’t, because you’re right’—hovering in the air before Akaashi coughs into his hand. “No. My orders were to investigate the cases of the demons acting up in the mortal realm and clear up the mess. They were not specific. I might as well—you know how ambiguous they are.”

“Then can’t you just use their words against them?” Bokuto asks, taking his seat next to Akaashi. The couch is small, like it was left empty on purpose; their thighs touch and the spirit has to calm down his beating heart(however _that’s_ supposed to work, since he’s pretty much dead). “If you tell them their orders aren’t clear.”

“If it’s just Oikawa, then perhaps,” Akaashi responds, clasping his fingers together. “But it won’t be just him. No, I’d sooner receive punishment under the guise of ‘neglecting my duties’ or ‘disobeying orders’.”

Beom snorts. “Wouldn’t be the first time they punished you for doing nothing.” 

The room stills. Bokuto, too, though he doesn’t notice it at first. “What?” 

Beom blows out a whistle. “Whew. If looks could kill, Bokuto.” 

He ignores him. “They do that to you?” There’s a scornful tone in his words that he’s unfamiliar with. “Why?”

Akaashi shrugs coolly. “I haven’t the slightest.” 

“How can you—”

“Because he’s been wiped.” 

Silence, again. All eyes turn to Shun, who calmly sips his tea. Long, wavy hair framing his face and falling before his eyes, making it difficult to discern the expression on his face. “Keiji knows, too. The Heavens are a cruel place, Bokuto-san.” Amber eyes meet gold. Something about it is so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time. “It’s why some people want to tear it down. And it’s also why the Upper Realm needs a new ruler. The current has been the overseer for us from times far before the war. He is unjust, he is biased, and nothing but a cowardly old man who clings onto the glories of his past and craves power.” There is a hint of bitter distaste in the male’s usual gentle voice. 

“Who is he?” Bokuto asks, because seeing Shun this way is new. “The current overseer, I mean.” 

“Tenshu-sama.” Shun waves a hand. “Well, that’s his title. His name is Amatsu.”

“You seem familiar with him.”

Shun raises an eyebrow. “We’ve met a few times. For work, mostly. And I suppose I’m important enough to sit in meetings with him.” He sighs. “I say he is a coward, but I could be wrong. He’s… difficult to read. It feels like he’s always lying, but he does it so well that I can’t tell if that’s truly how he is or if he’s just… hiding.” 

Beom snorts. “Well, he _is_ the overseer of the Upper Realm. He’s been the overseer since even before the last war. You don’t get to keep that position for so long by being predictable if you’re not powerful.”

Shun’s lips twitch. “He is biased and unjust. He’s been sitting in his seat for too long.”

“Shun,” Hwanjae cuts in. “That’s enough.”

The older sighs. “I know. Sorry.”

_Who’s the oldest cousin again?_

“Talk like that will get you in trouble,” Hwanjae says softly. “Have we not lost enough already?”

Shun purses his lips, falling silent. Akaashi crosses his arms. Bokuto sits like a fish out of water because he has absolutely no idea what the _fuck_ he should be doing _or_ saying at this very moment. 

“We’re going off-topic,” Beom snaps, rolling his eyes as he dramatically crosses his legs. “How the fuck did we get here all of a sudden? We’re supposed to be discussing what we’ll do when I get the evidence I need.” 

“What’s your theory?” Akaashi asks. 

A wink is all he gets in return. “I’ll keep my cards close to my chest until I have actual information to give you, sweetheart. Informants like me should _only_ give _proper_ information.”

Bokuto prickles. _Sweetheart._ He doesn’t like Beom’s tone, the way he says it. Like he’s flirting. _But when is he not?_ It’s never bothered Bokuto before—not when it was aimed at other people, at least. But when it’s Akaashi… 

It just doesn’t sit well with him when it’s _Akaashi_ he’s flirting with. 

“Bokuto-san?” Akaashi calls. Bokuto blinks once, jolting back into reality. 

“Here! What’s up? Did I space out?” A hand bashfully scratches the back of his head. “Sorry. I was thinking about something.”

Akaashi’s brows furrow ever-so-slightly and he tilts his head to the side. “... Alright. We were asking you if you’d figured out how to control your form. When you passed out yesterday, you were flickering between solid and… well, not.” 

“Ah! Nope.” And, of course, in typical Bokuto-like fashion, his tone is cheery and he shakes his head. “No fucking idea how to control it. It just happens. Aren’t I mostly solid now, though? I wasn’t aware I could, like… _un_ solid myself.” He presses a finger to his lips and tilts his head to the side, actions almost owl-like, inquisitive. “I thought it was like… once you’re solid, you’re just _solid,_ ya know?”

“Well, technically, yes.” Hwanjae steeples his fingers together with pursed lips. “But you’re different.”

“How do you know that?”

“Just… a hunch.” The deity’s smile is a little helpless. “Well, not really. But it’s difficult to put into words. Our point is that if you could control the way your form presents itself—immaterial or material—it would be useful for you. You’d be able to wander among mortals without being seen. And those that _would_ see you would only be children, animals, and others that _aren’t_ of this realm. And if someone was using a regular, non-spiritual weapon against you while you weren’t solid, you’d be able to avoid injury.” 

Well. It doesn’t sound _too_ bad, right? Bokuto leans against his seat, head tilted to the side. Then, he says, “A’ight. It sounds like a good idea. Who’s gonna teach me?”

“Me.” Calmly, Akaashi folds his hands over his lap as he meets Bokuto’s already excited gaze. “I’ll be teaching you how to control your form—and how to fight.”

“Really?” He practically starts jumping in his seat. His response is immediate, too, garnering varied reactions—a tired deadpan from Akaashi, a small, gentle smile from Hwanjae and Shun, and a roll of his eyes and a stuck-out tongue from Beom. “When? When are you going to start teaching me, then?”

Akaashi blows out a sigh. Bokuto misses the way the corners of his lips curl up _just_ so, too distracted by his own delight to take notice of such little things. “Not today. Maybe tomorrow or the day after.”

The spirit deflates on the spot. 

“That’s for your _form._ ” Hwanjae taps nimble fingers against his lap. “Your arms are in no shape for you to start practicing your swordsmanship. The most Akaashi can teach you now is stealth skills—like slyfooting.”

_“You walk so_ noisily. _”_

_“I wasn’t trained to be an assassin.”_

He blinks. It’s from that dream he had. Of… the past? 

Bokuto still doesn’t understand how that can make sense when he was, one: born in this century and, two: he has no recollection of such places in his memory. In fact, he’s never had _any_ memories of these things apart from the recurring one where he’s dying and Akaashi is calling for him to go back, turn back, until he’s truly met him. 

_I found you,_ he’d said.

But he still doesn’t know what he meant. 

Not to mention the way he’s been so _attached_ and undeniably _attracted_ to Akaashi, a guy who he’s _just_ met. It’s definitely been more than a week—maybe two, nearing three. Time flies so quickly, he can never truly get a solid grip on it. And it doesn’t help that Bokuto’s spent probably almost every minute of the day _with_ the dark-robed deity. At this point, they’re _used_ to being in each other’s presence. And vaguely familiar with the other’s habits. 

“That sounds awesome,” Bokuto comments, grinning. “I can work with that! Slyfooting is like… walking silently or something, right? For sneakin’ around?”

“Well,” Akaashi sighs. “At least you aren’t a _total_ idiot.”

“Hey! I’m not an idiot!”

Akaashi huffs, amused. “Sure.” 

_He’s mocking me!_

“Fuck, I can’t take this. I’m going to _vomit,_ ” Beom bursts out, throwing his hands up. “Go get a fucking room already, lovebirds, _jeez._ Not everyone here is _taken,_ you know. Or, you know. _Pining._ ”

Hwanjae flushes. Shun clears his throat. Beom throws up his arms. “ _Seriously?_ I’m seeing myself out, then.” He stands abruptly, checking the time, then scowling. “Fuck. There’s still a bit of time before the temple closes.” But he’s already walking towards the door. Delicate fingers rest on the door handle, but before he leaves, the demon turns around. “I’ll be back later. I know it’s night, but I have a feeling you’re both going to sleep through the whole day. Tomorrow…” His face twitches. “I’ll take you to meet Junya.”

  
The door opens. Beom leaves. 

It closes with a _click._

**——————**

“What’s up between Beom and Junya?” Bokuto asks, plopping onto the medium-sized bed that _really_ isn’t as small as it is at first glance. There’s _more_ than enough space for Akaashi. Sort of. If they’re close enough. 

He reddens at the thought. Akaashi emerges from the shower, donning modern sleepwear for once—a worn-out shirt and shorts that show off his pale, muscular legs. 

_Aha. Oh fuck._

Bokuto looks away. 

“I don’t know either,” comes the reply when Akaashi finishes wiping at his hair. “I wasn’t aware that the both of them were so well-acquainted with each other until today. I doubt Shun or Jae know much either, judging from the way they responded.”

“Eh… Well-acquainted?” He laughs. “That’s one way to put it.” Bokuto’s just showered, too. A T-shirt that he got from Hinata and Kageyama’s place paired with his sports shorts. “He seems like he wants to murder him.”

“Well. Not that far.” He pauses thoughtfully. “It’s difficult to get a read on Beom. He seems like he could do anything.”

The ex-athlete lets out a soft chuckle, shimmying to the side so Akaashi has space. The deity sits on the edge of the bed, a little hesitant. Bokuto pretends not to notice, ignoring the small sting in his heart. _Get a grip. You barely know each other._ “I guess that’s true, too.”

Cold fingers hesitantly take hold of Bokuto’s arm. He jolts, surprised, flinching when the pain spikes through him at the movement. Akaashi’s hand flinches back and he looks away, voice soft. “... That bad?”

“Not as much as when I first woke up.” Bokuto eyes his bandaged forearms. “I don’t know what Jae put on the wounds, but they’re definitely not as painful. At least I can _move_ them without getting dizzy from how much they hurt. I seriously thought my pain tolerance was high up until I got this. Think the scar will heal?”

Akaashi’s eyebrows are furrowed. “... Maybe.” He turns around again, slowly reaching for his arms. They hover, briefly. Bokuto watches, golden eyes keen. He doesn’t move. 

Then, slowly, Akaashi gently grabs hold of those bandaged arms, lips pursed. Subtly, Bokuto pulls his arms back _just so_ , and—

Akaashi moves closer, instinctively. Now he isn’t sitting on the edge of the bed—they’re right next to each other. The ex-athlete smiles, does a little victory dance in his head. _It worked!_

“I’m sorry,” he starts. The words pull him from his celebration and Bokuto blinks when he registers what he just heard. He opens his mouth, about to ask, or refute, perhaps, when the deity continues. “I wasn’t fast enough. You were deeply wounded because of it, and… well.” He purses his lips. “Now you have to suffer.”

“Hey, hey,” Bokuto responds, laughing. “What are you apologising for? That guy moved so fast—I’d be surprised if you _did_ make it in time. It isn’t your fault that—”

“But it _is._ ” Akaashi responds with a fire that Bokuto isn’t _quite_ familiar with, so it shuts him up really quick. “It _is_ my fault. There was no one else around us and this might not have happened if I hadn’t dragged you out with me to chase that ghoul. And, well, okay, maybe you would have gotten throttled or something if you were with the rest, but before you say that, Iwaizumi-san, Kuroo-san, Kozume-san—and the other Nekoma heads. They were there. They would have been able to protect you—I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded.” He lets go of Bokuto’s hand and leans against the bedhead, brows furrowed and hands clenched tight into fists. “If I’d been faster, you wouldn’t have been this badly—”

“Hey,” Bokuto cuts in, nudging Akaashi’s shoulder. “Where are you getting all that from? This is the first time I’ve heard you speak so much, and it’s an _apology._ And for what?” He laughs. “It wasn’t even your fault. Maybe if it was the others, they wouldn’t have been able to protect me, too. There were so many of them. And besides, you kicked his ass. After that.” Unable to resist, Bokuto reaches over to tuck a lock of hair behind Akaashi’s ear, head tilted to the side as he chuckles and moves his hand up to pat his head. “You’re alright, ‘Kaashi.”

He opens his eyes. Gunmetal blue, flecked with green tentatively meeting gold. 

Akaashi pulls away, sinking into the bed, turning his back to Bokuto. “... I’m going to sleep.” A wave of his hand. The room goes dark. 

But this time, the spirit doesn’t miss the red dusting the deity’s ear just before the lights go off. So he smiles, sinking into the bed, too. “Goodnight, Akaashi.” 

Silence. 

Then, softly, a voice calls. “... Goodnight, Bokuto-san.”

**——————**

“Up!” The door slams open, startling Bokuto awake. Akaashi emerges from the bathroom in fresh robes, turning his eyes to the door. “Oh, you’re up already. Okay, then Bokuto, get up!” 

“Waaaaaa… But I just fell asleep!”

“The fuck you did! It’s been an entire day, you blissful fucker! _I_ wish I could sleep that much!” Beom stomps forward, yanking the blanket off of his form. Bokuto lets out a groan, using the pillow to cover his head. But the pillow goes, too. “Get up. I don’t know how long he’s going to be where he is right now—fucking bastard keeps moving around—so if you don’t hurry, we might not be able to catch Junya.”

“Buhh… _Now?_ ”

“Akaashi, there’s a bucket in there, right? Could you get me some cold water—”

“Oh, jeez, I’m up, I’m up!” Bokuto sits up so fast he gets dizzy, his vision closing in on him for a good five seconds. He groans, burying his face in his hands. “Geez, is this how you wake people up?”

“Yes. It’s effective and I get to be loud.” Beom steps out of the room. “Hurry up and get dressed. If you guys aren’t done by the fifth minute, I’m barging in again whether you’re naked, half-naked, dicking down or not.”

“Wh—”

The door slams shut, leaving a heavy silence in his wake when Beom’s words sink in. Bokuto jumps to his feet. “What the fuck did he just—”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, clearing his throat, ears red as he looks away. “Just get dressed.” 

“... Fine.” And now _he’s_ blushing, too. It takes longer than he’d like because his arms are still hurting like all _hell,_ but by the time Beom barges in, he’s all done. The demon pouts, crossing his arms. 

“Aw, shit,” he sighs. “No drama today.” The elevator dings and they leave the building; the demon walks with both a sense of urgency and surety to where he’s going. It’s clear that he’s _very_ familiar with this route. As always, one of them chants an incantation to render Bokuto unrecognisable—a precaution they took awhile ago when Bokuto was nearly recognised despite being quite _dead._

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you wanted to see?”

“Well, either you guys making out, fucking, or at least Bokuto shirtless,” comes the shameless reply. Beom grins and winks. “I’d strike gold either way.” 

“You’re shameless,” Bokuto comments, not without awe. 

“I like to think I am,” comes the next frivolous reply. Beom makes a turn, stopping before an extravagantly decorated corporate building. He walks in, straight past the security guards, who hardly pay him any mind. Then to the elevator. Beom presses a few floor numbers in a specific order, and then they’re going down, down, down. Down to a floor that isn’t displayed there for them to see. 

“You’re familiar with this place,” Bokuto comments, to which Beom scowls. 

“Work things. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” 

_Oho._

There’s a ding. The doors open into a dimly lit room, dark red. On the wall to Bokuto’s right is a painting and a black, winding horn that isn’t like it’s of any earthen creatures. The room smells vaguely of smoke. To the right there’s a screen, painted, and behind it there’re some dark red curtains drawn shut. In front there’s nothing but desks and paperwork, neatly arranged to the side. More elaborate paintings scattered here and there on the wall, save for the closet closed tight behind the work desk. The curtains on the right are dimly lit, illuminating a vague, blurry, dark form. Nine tails and ears sticking up, someone smoking. There’s the sound of soft, amused laughter. The three watch as the form rises. 

The first thought that fills Bokuto’s mind is that they’re the same height. Definitely around the 190s. 

Behind the screen, the curtains part. Bokuto and Akaashi start coughing from the smoke that billows out—an action that only serves to fuel his laughter. 

“Get the hell out of there, you nasty old pervert,” Beom huffs, crossing his arms. “You fucking stink. There’s no way you didn’t know there would be guests today.”

A hum. “Energetic as ever, Kohaku.” Junya steps out. Silvery hair that cascades over his shoulders, mischievous eyes. The white fox ears atop his head are tipped with red, like the mark between his brow and the marks on his cheeks beneath both his upward-slanting eyes, three lines slashed across. Nine tails sway behind him one moment, and the next, they’re gone, and he’s dressed in a proper suit. An angular face, sharp yet deceivingly gentle. He looks no older than thirty. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, amused. The fox spirit tilts his head to the side, expression screaming nothing but mischief. His voice is like warm honey—the kind that your mother tells you to stay away from.

“My, my. It’s nice to see you again, General. How have you been?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me taking forever. This chapter is like... almost 1k words out of my usual :'D anyway new character!! Junya!!! FINALLY!! I've wanted to write him in for FOREVER. Pls leave a comment and tell me what you think so far! And a kudos would be nice too wink wonk. Thanks for reading!!


	15. Loopholes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little world-building + plot chapter :'D I hope you guys don't mind me going off on my OCs HHHHHHH I... couldn't help it.... 

* * *

_Something flares in him. Something ugly, foreign, despicable. And something that screams for a fight._

* * *

At first, there’s silence. Bokuto blinks once, confused, before he speaks. “Do I _know_ you?” 

The kitsune tilts his head to the side, a chuckle spilling from thin lips as he shakes his head, slicking his long locks of hair backwards in one smooth motion. “Well. You’re suspicious enough of me for me to believe that you aren’t a _total_ blank slate, so I suppose that’s a good sign. Or a bad one, depending on how you look at it.” He pushes himself off the wall and spreads his arms, giving a mock bow. “My name is Junya, General. Though I’m _sure_ you already know that. It’s a pleasure to be at your acquaintance again.”

Akaashi pauses, tilting his head to the side. There’s a slight furrow in his brow, confusion written on his face. “Again?”

“Yes,” Junya confirms, tilting his head to the side. He moves towards the desk at the back of the room, settling down in his seat and reclining, propping his feet on the wood. The papers are piled to the side. For a brief moment, Bokuto wonders if the paperwork is under the fox spirit’s to-do list or if they’re already completed. Both boast a different sort of _scary_ to him either way. “Again. Why?” A knowing smile graces his lips; Junya’s narrowed eyes curve upwards when he smiles. Then he leans forwards, settling his legs on the ground, propping his elbow on the desk and leaning his cheek against hand. His other hand rests, palm down, on the table. Long, clawed fingers tapping a rhythm that clicks loudly in the silence of the room. “Something wrong?”

“Dude,” Bokuto starts. “I’m pretty sure I would remember you if I’d met you.”

“It’s impossible,” Akaashi adds, folding his arms in his sleeves. “Bokuto-san hasn’t even been dead for a month yet.” Though it feels like it’s been much, _much_ longer. And it _definitely_ doesn’t feel like Bokuto has known Akaashi for _just_ a few weeks, and he’s pretty sure the immortal feels the same way. Besides—it feels like a month has passed already. They’re pretty close, anyway, right? Time is… a strange concept for immortals. When one has lived for millenia, mere days blur together, hours and minutes nonexistent, if not a little insignificant speck in their lives. Everything passes in the blink of an eye. 

“Is that what you think?” Junya is still smiling, fingers tip-tapping away on the table. They’re clawed, the spirit realises with a jolt. And sharp. 

Like the ones that sank into his arms, tore through flesh and nearly hit bone. 

The thought makes his arms hurt. He presses them closer to himself. 

Something about this man screams something more than just _power._ More than just _danger._ Something… _other_ that raises Bokuto’s hackles. Akaashi, too, is tense next to him. 

The only one that’s unperturbed is Beom, who stands with crossed arms as he watches their back and forth, uncharacteristically quiet. Listening. If he were an animal—a dog, a cat—his ears might have been perked. Information is always important to him, no matter how minute it is. But there’s a different sort of tension in the way he’s standing—like he wants to leave but can’t. Maybe it’s because he needs the information. Or maybe it’s something else. 

“Stop playing games with them, old man,” Beom snaps finally, impatient. 

“But games are _fun,_ Kohaku,” Junya purrs. “You would know, wouldn’t you? We _are,_ after all, cut from similar cloths.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

“We both know you’re not stupid, darling.”

“Who the fuck are you calling _darling?_ ”

Junya only smiles. It’s patient, like he’s humouring a child. He even tilts his head to the side innocently, inquisitively, as he asks, “Are you angry with me?” 

Silence. “Just get on with it.”

Junya hums, then turns his attention back to Bokuto and Akaashi, who are trying to process what they just witnessed. “Anyway,” he continues smoothly, folding his hands on the desk. “I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of reincarnation, Akaashi dear. It’s very possible. It’s happened before to various lucky people, so why can’t the General have that, too?”

_Akaashi dear._ Bokuto doesn’t like the way he says it. It’s like Beom all over again. 

Silence. The kitsune smiles, eyes flashing gold in the dim light for the briefest of moments. But then he turns his gaze back to the snake demon next to them, who immediately tenses. It’s odd how Junya’s able to set Beom on edge more than the other two, but where the other two are afraid of the great, ancient, powerful unknown, the male is tense because of something else. “You left so quickly yesterday,” he laments, pouting just a tad. He rises from his seat; there’s a certain grace and control to his movements that none of them have. The grace of someone who has lived so long in their own body that every little muscle and movement is under their control. There are no unnecessary movements, each step languid and smooth. Beom swallows. “I’m hurt,” he begins, still stepping forward while the snake demon takes a step back. “—that you didn’t even bother to say goodbye, Kohaku.” 

One step forward.

Beom takes a step back.

Back and forth, over and over again. Beom reacts like a cornered animal, curling on himself, tense. Panicked, almost, though Bokuto and Akaashi can’t see his expression—wide-eyed, flushed. At a loss, his mouth parted slightly in an ‘o’. An arm comes up to act as a feeble barrier, but the fox spirit ignores it completely as he reaches a hand forward to tuck a stray lock of hair behind the younger’s ear. He leans forward to whisper into his ear, leaving Bokuto and Akaashi absolutely mystified. Mystified, curious and amused. After all, Beom isn’t one to be so easily flustered. Junya’s breath burns the demon’s neck. “I didn’t even get to treat you.” 

The air stills. Bokuto feels like he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be witnessing this. Akaashi is already looking away. It seems like something… overly private. But neither Neither Junya nor Beom seem to care—either that, or they don’t notice. The latter stays completely still for a few agonising moments, at a loss for what to do. Frozen, so much so that it’s like he’s dead. A _dead_ giveaway that he’s a demon, if ever there was one. (Heh.)

And then he snaps out of it. Pulling away, pushing him back. Beom tears away like he’s been burned, clutching at the bare skin of his neck that still tingles in the wake of Junya’s breath on it. “When did I ever say you could call me Kohaku?” He snaps. The demon makes his way back to Akaashi, a feeble attempt at running away. Not that he manages to escape the fox’s sharp gaze. “And I had every right to. You wanted to—”

He stops. 

Junya smiles; a close-mouthed smile where only his eyes curve up. He stays in place, crossing his arms. He takes up the whole room with his presence. “Yes?”

The demon sulks, sealing his mouth shut. 

“Well,” Junya drawls. “It was only right for me to demand a little more after what you did to my papers.” He inclines his head, still smiling. “It took me _quite_ some time to rearrange it, Kohaku. Besides. That amount of money shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

Beom is like unwilling prey, unwittingly stepping into the trap set for him by the predator. “The _money_ wasn’t the problem!”

  
Bokuto blinks. “But you were _complaining_ about the money.”

The fox demon raises an eyebrow, making his way back to the desk. He doesn’t sit on the chair—instead, he slides his fingers against the surface before sitting on the desk. His silky hair cascades down his shoulders in soft, light waves. “Is that so? Well, it was either he paid an absurd amount—even for me—or he paid _less_ if he—”

“Fuck _off!_ ” The demon that was hiding behind the dark-robed immortal steps forward now, unable to lie dormant when he gets in Junya’s face. _So_ close that Bokuto is sure it’s an invasion of personal space if it were between mere strangers and even for enemies. He realises this, too, and he pulls away. “We aren’t here to talk about _this_.”

“Mm. You’re right.” A hand reaches out to close around Beom’s wrist. “So stay back later.”

Bokuto’s eyebrows raise so high up they’re about to shoot off of his head. Even Akaashi looks back to the two, surprised. 

It’s like they’re not even in the room, but if this drama is what they’re getting in exchange for that, then Bokuto doesn’t mind _too_ much. He isn’t sure if he wants Junya’s attention on _him,_ anyway—something about him is unsettling. 

Beom purses his lips. Then he tears his wrist away and walks back into the corner, pissed. Ignoring the red on his cheeks, he slinks into the shadows, content to have no attention from _anyone_ for once. Then Junya turns his gaze to the other two, who tense beneath his gaze. “Now then.” He leans back against his arms, crossing his legs. “I hear you both had _quite_ the battle in Miyagi. Along with the Nekoma and Karasuno factions, of course.”

“We did,” Akaashi responds coolly, acting like he wasn’t just eavesdropping on Beom and Junya(though it isn’t like either of them were trying to be quiet about it). 

Junya hums. “I know. And the General, too.” Eyes dropping to the bandages wrapped around the ex-athlete’s toned arms, then slowly tracing back up in a way that makes Bokuto feels like he’s being stripped. “Though I’m sure Hwanjae has already taken care of it.” Nine shadows rise behind him, all bearing the outlines of tails, despite the fact that there aren’t any physical ones behind him at the moment. He taps his nails against the table. _Click-click-click-click._ “Must have been rather _exciting._ It’s a pity I wasn’t there to see it.” A sigh. “It’s hard being this busy.” 

Maybe if Bokuto was a little more familiar with the fox spirit, he’d slap him. “Exciting,” he starts. “Is definitely one way to put it.”

The fox spirit raises his brows. “Oh, _you_ would definitely know.” He pauses when he sees the spirit’s bewildered expression and laughs. “Well, perhaps not the current you. But the _you_ of the past and possibly near future… you would know.” 

“It would be nice if you weren’t always talking in circles,” Bokuto quips. “I’ve had enough of deities that can’t ever talk straight.”

“Funny how I’m not straight then, huh?” Junya jests, then laughs. “General, I think you’ll find that finding a pure, untainted immortal that finds complete and blunt, straightforward honesty will be _very_ hard to come by. Such deities are few and far in between, if any. And, for the record—” a wink “—I _wasn’t_ speaking in riddles. I meant everything _quite_ literally.” 

“Anyway,” Akaashi cuts in, eternal patience clearly stretched thin. “We’re here to talk about the temple.”

Junya pauses. “Ah, right. I forget you came here for work. I suppose I had too much fun.” A smile. “It gets lonely when you’re this old.” And then, like he wasn’t just complaining, he rises from the desk, walking behind it to sit back in his chair. “Nasty business, that temple. Really nasty.” 

“So you know what’s happening,” Bokuto says. 

At the back, Beom perks up. Information at last—and the only reason he’s still here, the spirit suspects. For the intel. 

“I know enough,” comes the ambiguous reply. “Who’s asking?”

“Me,” Akaashi responds. “ _I’m_ asking.”

Junya’s gaze is contemplative. Appraising, as it flickers between the two. Golden eyes glowing eerily in the dim light. Only a few lamps are lit, after all—there are lights on the ceiling, but they aren’t on. Bokuto wonders if all demons are naturally more inclined to be in the dark. And then why. Is it because they’re more powerful at night? Or does it bring a sort of comfort to them that the light does not?

“Unfortunately,” he finally sighs, clasping his hands together. “I cannot tell you everything. Even if it _is_ you, Akaashi.” He spreads those pale hands. “My silence has been lavishly paid for, and I am a man of my word where payment has been given.” 

Which reminds him. “I heard you don’t always ask for _just_ money.” 

Junya grins. “Ah. Well, you heard right. Curious?”

_A little._ But he doesn’t say it. It’s more than enough for the fox spirit, though. He sighs dramatically. 

“They sent the _prettiest_ lady to negotiate with me.” He leans back in his seat. “They know I like pretty things. She let me… _play_ with her—” his expression is lascivious here “—and she told me their secrets. Ones they were likely prepared to give up after _much_ agonising, knowing my style. But it’s quite alright; those secrets are more valuable than gold.” 

“... I’m leaving.” The snake demon pushes himself off of the wall, expression blank. He meets Akaashi’s gaze. “If I stay any longer, I’m going to fucking _vomit._ Tell me what you know later.” He nods to Bokuto, then turns away, not even bothering to spare the fox spirit a glance. 

The lift door opens. Beom steps in. Then it closes shut and he’s gone. 

Silence. 

“ _He’s_ the one that told me not to get my panties in a twist when we got here,” the spirit mumbles, breaking the silence, to which Junya barks out an amused laugh. 

“Sounds like him,” he sighs, shaking his head, smile still present on his lips. “You’re as humorous as ever, General.” The kitsune flicks his gaze back to the lift. “He won’t leave the building. I assume you’d find him in the lounge.” _Click-click-click-click._ “Do me a favour, won’t you, dears?” He purrs. “Don’t tell him what we’ve spoken about. What I tell you here and now—keep it a secret from him.” 

“Who are you calling _‘dears’_?” Bokuto quips the same moment Akaashi goes “Don’t call me that.” 

_The only person I’d allow to call me ‘dear’ is Akaashi!_

_... Assuming he ever_ does, _that is._

Junya laughs again. It’s not the soft, mischievous and amused one they first heard—no, this one is loud. Charismatic, boisterous. Enigmatic. It seems to echo, even, as he throws his head up and his shoulders shake in one smooth motion. 

“It’s nice to know that _some_ things don’t change, even after so long,” he sighs when he calms down, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Then he straightens, leans forward in his seat. “Alright,” he starts. “I’m done dragging things out. Ask.”

Junya waves his hand. Two chairs appear in front of his desk, and he tilts his head, gesturing for them to sit. For a moment, Bokuto and Akaashi sit there, dumbfounded, before moving at the same time to take their seats in one smooth motion, which only serves to fuel the kitsune’s amusement. “The temple,” Akaashi starts after they’ve both settled down. “Tell us what you know of it.” 

“Wait.” Bokuto holds up a hand. “Aren’t we supposed to discuss… like, payment first?” 

The kitsune blinks. Then he chuckles, shaking his head. “No. Since it’s the both of you, there is no payment required.” He inclines his head. “Neither of you are ‘normal’ clients, after all. But if you insist…” A grin; like a too-cunning fox, which _is_ what he is. “I wouldn’t mind discussing it.”

“Nope!” Bokuto is quick to respond. “Nope, nope, nope. We’re good. Keep it free, thanks.” 

Junya blows out a breath. “Is that so? Pity, then.” He sighs. “Oh well.” The fox spirit pauses, examining the two, as though he’s weighing his options, wondering what he can say and what he can’t. “Like I said, I can’t tell you everything. But I can tell you this: the person behind it is a demon. One you’d be _quite_ familiar with, Akaashi. Me, too, though not as much as you would be. He’s from your era. You’ve met on several occasions, and none of them were favourable.” He turns his gaze to Bokuto. “You as well, General. Though not in your current state—not yet, at least.” 

“Who?” The words leave Akaashi’s lips before he can stop them. 

“Akaashi,” Junya starts, crossing his arms. “This I cannot say. My silence has been paid for and earned by the other party, and business is business. I am a man of my word. However…” The fox spirit pauses, contemplating. Then he says, “It would do you well to check behind the paintings of the goddess when you visit the temple. Look closely at the figurines. Especially where worship is due. And the staff—watch them, Akaashi Keiji. Do what you do best.” 

Akaashi hesitates. “Do you know what you’re implying?” 

“I know how words work, Akaashi,” comes the smooth reply as Junya tilts his head to the side. “Yes, I know _exactly_ what I’m implying. I’m simply not saying it. Silence and all, you know?” The smile is sly, mischievous. The spirit winks, like he’s sharing a secret, which he is. It’s the first indication that he might be fun to hang out with after all. 

_“You know you could have died back there, right?”_

_“Well, yes. But is that_ really _a bad thing?” Fox eyes, a sly smile, unbothered and uncaring. “My death would be insignificant. I have lived long enough, you see.”_

_“You know,” Bokuto starts dryly. “Normally people would_ thank _someone for saving their lives. But I’m not hearing any from you.”_

_“Oh, is that what you were expecting?” Junya blinks. “Well, then thank you, I suppose.” His tone is flippant; no matter how one looks at it, there’s no sincerity to it at_ all. _“But, really, you should have just left me there to die.”_

_“Why were they after you anyway?”_

_A smile. “Well, General. When someone knows too much and has lived for too long, people tend to go after their throats.”_

_“... I never told you who I was.”_

_“No,” the fox spirit clips cheerily. “No, you most certainly didn’t, Bokuto Koutarou.”_

The spirit blinks. _Oh, deities, I_ did _know him._

And he’d saved him. From something, from someone. Were they hunters? How old was Junya then? Old, still, but clearly not as old as he is now. A few centuries? A few millennia? He couldn’t tell then, and he definitely can’t tell now. 

“So you’re saying that the mortals aren’t praying to Ebisu-sama,” Akaashi starts. “But a demon.” 

_Oh. That_ does _sound pretty bad._

“Perhaps,” comes the swift, nonchalant response. “I was paid not to say the outright truth, you see.” A smile. “Such a common mistake. But I suppose it’s because of idiots like them that I still get to keep my little stream of information going.” 

“But why?” Bokuto finds the question leaving his lips before he can stop them. Akaashi looks a little miffed to have the words stolen right out of his mouth, but Junya offers a secretive smile in response as he leans forward. “Why would they do that?”

“Tell me, General,” he purrs, hooded eyes curving into crescents as his lips curl upwards. “How do the gods of the Higher Plane amass power? How do they amass the power that they share with those of the Higher Realm?” 

Bokuto blinks. “Is _that_ how Higher Realm deities get their power? By sharing it with the ones above?”

Junya tilts his head to the side. “I forget that you don’t know such simple things anymore. I’ll be concise, then, since this isn’t the main topic of our conversation today. How much _do_ you know?”

So Bokuto holds up three fingers and ticks them off one by one as he goes, “The Upper Realm is for cultivators that achieved immortality and did something impactful to the world. The Lower Realm is for those that said cultivators took up with them, usually something like… A deputy chief, or something? And they don’t have temples dedicated to them. _But,_ Upper Plane dwellers are true gods who have shrines and temples built in their name. I don’t know much else about them, though.” 

“Well, you’ve got the basics down,” comes the spirit’s reply. “All cultivators have to work hard to achieve a certain level of power to achieve immortality, and then they all have to do something impactful if they want to ascend. Some cultivators can achieve ascension before immortality—usually the young ones, the extraordinary ones in times of war. The Heavens are an odd bunch, you see— _impactful_ does not equate to _positive._ It could be saving your entire kingdom from a natural disaster single-handedly, or it could me massacring an entire army with your bare hands, or destroying another kingdom. All of these count as _impact._ ” He simpers, here, watching Bokuto’s expression. “Twisted, isn’t it? But I’d assume you already know this, so I’ll explain something else.” He splays his hands on the table. “Every deity in the Upper and Lower Realms have passed a certain _point_ of power, but they are not _all_ at the same level of it. Your power ages and grows with you.” And then he blows out a whistle. “I feel like an old teacher.”

“You’re old enough to be one,” Akaashi points out, to which Junya offers a very calm smile. 

“I know.” His pointed, golden gaze meets with the spirit’s and he asks, “Following well, little disciple of mine?”

“I’m not your disciple,” Bokuto huffs. “And I’m not _little._ ”

“Hmm.” Junya’s still smiling—the insufferable kind that makes you want to punt someone. “I’ll agree with you on the first half. _Everyone_ is little to me at this age, General. Even our little Dragon Lord here.”

The dark-robed deity’s expression visibly sours at that form of address, but for once, does not deny. Bokuto wonders why, is already opening his mouth to ask the question, but Junya’s already continuing. “The lucky ones receive blessings when they ascend, if they’re noticed by any of those of the Upper Planes. Blessings that come in the form of _power._ ” And then his eyes flash. Junya’s golden eyes burn bright even in the light, narrowed pupils and a fanged smile. But it all disappears so quickly that the spirit wonders if it was an illusion. “Naturally, if you’ve received an Upper Plane dweller’s blessing, you’ll have more power. And, of course, the dwellers aren’t limited to just _our_ gods. The Upper Plane is where _every_ god of _every_ culture dwells.” 

“You know a lot,” the older blurts, as if he isn’t trying his best to wrap his head around the idea. But the kitsune only laughs in response. 

“I would hope so. It would be odd if someone of my age and profession _didn’t_ know a thing or two about the Immortal Realms.” Propping his elbows on the table, Junya tilts his head to the side. “Which brings me back to my question. Naturally, if you’re sharing—or, well, _giving,_ technically—your power with or to someone else, how would you replace it? Replenish it?”

“Prayers,” Akaashi responds. “Prayers from the mortals, seeking your divine power in an attempt to satisfy their wishes.” 

“ _Precisely._ ” Junya snaps his fingers in the immortal’s direction. “Prayers. And if prayers are how deities amass power, then why can’t demons do the same?”

Silence. 

Then, from Bokuto, a very small _“oh”_ fills the room. 

The fox spirit gives him a few moments to take in the information, eyeing the both of them in a strangely analytical way that sort of makes the ex-athlete feel like Junya is the scientist and they’re the subjects that he _sorely_ wishes to cut open and examine. For a brief moment, Bokuto wonders what he’d be looking for in the first place. But then he remembers that every person who’s seen him with Akaashi has always stared at them like they’ve grown an extra head. He supposes that this… ancient fox demon is no exception. 

He doesn’t know if he should be disappointed or not. He wishes someone would tell him why it seems so _wrong_ to be with Akaashi. 

“Anyway,” he continues, leaning back. “That’s all the information I can give to the both of you. I’ve exploited my only loophole. What you do with what you know is up to you. And, as usual, if anyone asks, say nothing about me.” Junya simpers. “No matter how special you might be, I make no exceptions if this condition is broken.”

“Is that a threat?” Bokuto bristles. He doesn’t like being threatened. He doesn’t like _Akaashi_ being threatened. Is this what Junya always does? Threatens Akaashi after he imparts whatever knowledge he has? 

The fox spirit. “That’s a nice expression you have on you, General. Fierce. Reminds me sorely of the old days.” A tilt of his head; light hair falling before his eyes as he continues to simper and smirk as though he’s asking for a beating. “You tell me.”

He’s itching for a punch. 

And it’s evident that Junya can tell when his smile only widens into a grin as he rises. “General,” he starts. “Might I trouble you to leave our darling Akaashi and I alone for a bit?” He acts as though he doesn’t see the way the ex-athlete bristles at yet another person giving the deity a doting nickname. He can’t help it, after all. 

Love is a fickle thing. 

But it’s funny, because Bokuto is pretty sure he isn’t in love. 

  
  
For how can one fall in love for someone they’ve only just met?

But, again—

_Love is a fickle thing._

Selfish. A monster that rears its head at you and spits in your face when you least expect it. A fluffy animal that you seek when you are in need of comfort. The creature in your closet that you fear as a child come alive, and yet, the angel you’ve always dreamed of meeting in your daydreams. 

Love is as despicable as it is seductive. 

Of course, the kitsune doesn’t stop there. No, he dares. He dares to look at the spirit in the eye as he casually, easily sets a hand on the dark-robed deity’s shoulder, smile still pleasant on his lips. Akaashi doesn’t so much as flinch, as though he’s used to his touch. 

Something flares in him. Something ugly, foreign, despicable. And something that screams for a fight. 

_All he sees is red. Red, red, red. The scent of iron beneath his nose, warm liquid splashed onto his cheeks. The smell is sickening, the overwhelming amounts of liquid life everywhere disgusting. Jarring, daunting, terrifying. Red, red, red,_ red. 

_But his heart is beating in something more than just_ fear. _It’s the thrill. The thrill of a good battle. If he can ignore all the blood, the bodies, the severed limbs(how he wishes he could) then this would be_ perfect. _Red on the floor, red on his weapon, his armour. His comrades, screaming for help, to be saved. Screaming the names of their loved ones and praying to useless gods as they reach their ends._

_He hates it. He hates it all, the grief and sadness and twisted gore and violence of it. The battlefield is merciless._

_Oh, but how he_ loves _a battle._

_How he loves the thrill when their weapons clash, each blow he gives and takes. Everything is such fun, with his heart beating in his chest, blood racing through his body._

_Bokuto Koutarou loves the battlefield._

_Bokuto Koutarou hates death._

_So whenever someone dies by his hand, he pushes his emotions down, down, down, before he plunges his weapon home, and when they go limp, when they fall to the ground after drawing their last breath, he always,_ always, _whispers his apologies, hoping he can repent for the crime of murder one way or another._

_It’s always harder when he remembers the people he’s killed all had families and loved ones waiting for them at home._

_It’s always harder when he knows that whoever they’re waiting for won’t be coming back._

_But he can’t keep himself off the battlefield when the thrill of it, of a_ fight, _of his heart pumping through his blood, is something he so loves._

_To him, war is a drug. Toxic, yet, so,_ so _addictive. He can never quite tear himself from it._

_But that doesn’t mean he’s never wanted to kill people when he knows he is fully capable of it._

“Bokuto-san?” 

Akaashi’s voice tears him from his thoughts. Jarringly so. He almost jumps in his seat, surprised as he jolts back into reality. The deity’s brows are furrowed in concern. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah!” Shaking himself out of it, he rises from his seat. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I’ll leave you both be.” And then he excuses himself, rushing out of the room, hands shaking. He’d seen more than just a memory. He’d felt it. Tasted the temptation of a fight. Bokuto’s hands are shaking—if he hadn’t been snapped out of it, he might have wrapped his hands around Junya’s neck and—

He shakes his head. _Don’t think about it._

The lift opens with a soft _ding._ Bokuto steps in. It closes behind him. 

He presses the button that’ll take him back to the ground floor. He doesn’t remember the combination of numbers that Beom pressed in. 

The spirit leans against the wall, runs his hands through his hair, blows out a sigh. 

He’s sweating. 

The doors open again. Bokuto steps out, turns right towards what he _assumes_ is the lounge area, judging from all the couches splayed about. He spots Beom, sprawled on one of the couches and sipping from an iced Starbucks drink that’s… oddly colourful. He joins him, of course. No one pays either of them any mind. No surprise for Bokuto, but they’re all treating the snake demon like this isn’t the first time he’s been here or behaved like this. 

“Got kicked out?” Said demon asks nonchalantly, noisily taking a sip from his drink. “What did you guys talk about?”

“Yeah.” His expression sours. “I want to fucking punch him.”

Beom barks out a laugh at that, but something about it is almost bitter. “Yeah? Me fucking too. We can both do that later on.” Then, again. “Tell me what he told you.”

For a moment, Bokuto worries his lip, wondering if he should just ignore what the kitsune told them to do. But alas, in the end, he says, “He told us not to tell you.”

Something flashes in the demon’s eyes. Rage, sort of. And something else he can’t quite pinpoint. “That _fucking_ asshole.”

“Why do you hate him so much anyway?”

“You _just_ met him.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’m not going to keep talking about this.” Beom finishes the rest of his drink, then eyes Bokuto. “... Let’s get you some Starbucks while we wait for Junya to finish… whatever the fuck he’s doing with Akaashi. Not fucking, _jeez,_ stop being so overprotective. They’re probably discussing something else.”

“I wasn’t being overprotective!”

Beom pauses, then gives him a once-over. And then he laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, _boy,_ ” he starts. “You have _no idea._ ”

**——————**

“So…” Junya trails his fingers across his desk, gathering imaginary dust on them and flicking it away. “Bokuto Koutarou.” 

“Yes.” Akaashi’s expression is wary. _Everything_ is. He’s tense—more so than he usually is around Junya. Something about the way the fox seems to be picking fights and baiting Bokuto… he doesn’t like it. And the way the latter seems to be walking _right_ into his traps? He likes _that_ even _less._ “Are you surprised, too?”

The kitsune barks out a laugh, like, _seriously?_ “Of _course_ I am. You’ve never brought another acquaintance with you to meet me before. I must say, I feel like a mother watching her son grow up. Very odd, very mixed. Happy, but also put off.” He meets the other’s cold, unconvinced gaze, smiling. Like he knows he doesn’t believe him and doesn’t care, which… he really doesn’t. “Are you tired of that?”

“Of _course_ I am. You have no idea what it’s like whenever someone sees him with me.”

“Well, to be _fair,_ ” he hums. “It’s a very _understandable_ reaction. I’d imagine that the older ones always have a far more exaggerated response compared to the young ones who only have hearsay and warnings to go off of.”

“Hearsay?” Akaashi perks up immediately. “Of what? Of us?” His brows furrow. “What is there to say about Bokuto? He isn’t immortal. He never has been. I would know him if he was.” _Even though I feel like I do, even though he says he knows me._

Junya doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “Their reactions _are_ warranted.” He walks over to the horn perched on the stand at the front of the room, running his clawed fingers over the surface. It’s not smooth—it’s rough, the way a horn _should_ be. Not polished, pitch black. It sucks the light out of anything near it. 

The immortal eyes the horn with a grimace, a hand reaching up for a split moment to touch the bottom of his earlobe because he stops himself from reaching for the empty space above his head. It’s not his horn, no, but it must have been painful to have that cut off. “I want to know why.”

Silence. 

“Junya.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t avoid the question.”

The kitsune chuckles, then smiles. “Not so dormant and well-behaved anymore, are you?” He asks. But then it fades when Akaashi doesn’t budge, hands tightly folded in his sleeves. He sighs. “My silence has been paid for for many, _many,_ years, Akaashi. I couldn’t tell you anything even if I wanted to, and I wish I could. But the heavens have been very thorough with their wording of the deal and the oath they made me swear.” For once, he is sincerely apologetic. “Apologies.”

He scowls. “Not even a loophole?”

A pause. “Well… perhaps one.” He tears his hand from the dragon’s horn, a relic from millennia past. “You knew him once. You did. A very, _very_ long time ago. Before the divine war broke out.”

He blinks. “What? But that’s…”

“From before you were even a deity, yes.” Junya turns to face Akaashi. “Like I said—a _very,_ very long time ago.” 

“But how?”

“I can’t say.”

“... Fine.” He huffs, settling back in his seat with crossed arms. “Then how did _you_ come to know him?”

Here, he barks out a laugh. It’s almost bashful. “Oh, that’s an embarrassing little story. It would bore you.”

“You? Embarrassing story?” He raises a stoic eyebrow. “You must be joking if you think such a thing would bore me.” 

“... He got me out of a bind when I was at my weakest.” Junya sighs, shaking his head. “He’s the reason I know you, the reason _you_ know _me._ ”

“ _What?_ ”

“Do you _truly_ not remember him?”

Akaashi pauses, trying to rack his brain for something, for _anything._ But he can’t find a single _damn_ thing. Whenever he feels something resurfacing, it fades away just as quickly. Like… 

Like there’s an empty space in his mind where something was _supposed_ to be. 

Shun says he was wiped. 

But why?

And… if Bokuto _did_ exist back then—

Then why wipe his memories of _him?_

It’s like trying to keep sand in the palm of your hand. It never stays and just keeps slipping. Except he can’t see the sand and he can’t even bring it up to him before it’s already slipping through his fingers. Grasping for nonexistent threads.

“I… no. I can’t. I can’t remember him. I don’t know him. I _never_ knew him. And even if I _did_ have memories to go on…” He trails off, then frowns. “Well. I wouldn’t know what’s real and what _isn’t._ ”

Junya hums in thought. Then, he asks, “How long has it been since the both of you have met?”

“Almost three weeks. Maybe more, maybe less. You know how time is with us. Too hard to keep track of now.” 

Junya chuckles. “You don’t have to tell _me_ that.” Then he approaches him, leaning down, because the deity is still seated. “Strange, then. Whatever they gave you must have been very strong. You’ve been staying with the General every day, yes? Spent every waking hour with him?”

“Why are you phrasing it that way?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He raises a finger. Akaashi flinches back, but, unperturbed, the fox demon reaches forward. “Its effects should have worn out by now, at least. It’s been centuries, millenia, even. It’s only a matter of time—ah.” He taps a spot on the deity’s forehead. “Found it. There. That should speed things up… even if it’s just a little. But it’s still something.” 

“What—”

The spot Junya touched _burns._ A white-hot, searing pain that tears through his head and causes him to gasp. Akaashi shuts his eyes tight, palm flying to his forehead. He’s always prided himself(sort of) on his high tolerance for pain, but this… _this,_ is something else entirely. “ _What did you just do?_ ”

“Something I could have done sooner.” Junya settles in his seat, crossing his legs and leaning his elbow on the arm of the chair, cheek against the palm of his hand. “I wanted to spare you the pain. But now is a good time to do it—it’s the first time you’ve met him since the divine war, after all. And, from the looks of it, he isn’t going to go anywhere anytime soon.” 

“ _What?_ ” The pain is so fucking _distracting._ He can barely register what the kitsune is saying, what he means. It’s taking _everything_ in him to reel in his thoughts, because his focus is geared towards preventing the urge to scream. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“The effects won’t come immediately, so bear with me. If anything confuses you, bring them to Kohaku. He knows where to find me. He always will.” There’s a strange tone in his voice when he says that last part, but Akaashi is too _out of it_ to bother trying to pinpoint it. He’s panting, sweating. The pain’s eased a little—at least he doesn’t feel like screaming—but those few seconds, that one minute or whatever, felt like fucking _forever._ “Better?”

“... Barely.” His voice comes out hoarse. “What did you do to me?”

“You’ll know in time. If anything confuses you, ask Kohaku.” Junya leans forwards, tucking his finger beneath Akaashi’s chin and forcing the deity to meet his gaze, narrowed eyes mischievous. “You really _are_ quite the beauty, aren’t you?”

Akaashi pulls away as though he’s been burned. “Don’t touch me.”

The fox spirit bursts into laughter. “Relax, Akaashi. I won’t. You are not mine to take.” He waves a hand. “Feel free to leave. I’m done with you. But be a dear and call in Kohaku, won’t you? He should be in the lounge, as he always is.” A smile. “I’d like to have a little chat with him.”

Akaashi leaves so fast he nearly trips over his robe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read all your comments, guys. Please keep leaving them!! And a kudos, too, if you don't mind ;D   
> ps. stop reading in class. go focus  
> pps. go to sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Follow my tumblrs!
> 
> @big-oya-energy [haikyuu x reader]  
> @crepisculum [prompts, hero x villain]  
> @amkxh [the acc on your notifs]


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